


The Last Days

by The_Librarian



Series: Transformers: This Is How It All Began [2]
Category: Transformers (Marvel Generation One), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Autobots - Freeform, Before they were famous, By any other name, Crimes & Criminals, Cybertron, Cybertronian life, Decepticons - Freeform, Detective Noir, Detectives, Diplomacy, Downward Spiral, Energy Shortage, Epic, Espionage, Friendship, Furmanism, Gen, Iacon, Investigations, Organized Crime, Pre-Canon, Pre-War, Prequel, Tarn - Freeform, Terrorism, Vos - Freeform, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-24 09:18:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 49,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Librarian/pseuds/The_Librarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danger and daily life on Cybertron! The pomp and ceremony of the Prime's duties! The spectacle of gladiatorial combat! The struggle to hold down a decent job! And...murder most foul? When a rich socialite is found brutally killed in the Tagen Dead End, it's up to Civic Guard Investigator Diatrion to solve the mystery and bring the killers to justice. But a devastating explosion in the city of Tarn soon complicates matters and puts him on a collision course with an eccentric private detective...the brilliant Nightbeat!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shrikebats

**Author's Note:**

> I'm nipping back to add these notes for new readers - not exactly the most glamorous form of time travel but it shouldn't punch any holes in reality. The first thing to point out is that this is the second act of a larger story – and good heavens, what are you doing here if you haven't started at the beginning? Go and read 'Twilight of a Golden Age' post haste!
> 
> All done? Excellent. As you will have seen in the first part, I'm using a naming convention of my own devising to give everyone in the story 'true' names as opposed to their actual canon names, which are nicknames most of them get later. If I've done my job right, you'll probably be able to work out who is who, but fair warning is only fair etc.
> 
> Also, I'd like to thank DragonTail and The_Dancing_Walrus for their support and proof-reading throughout this story – couldn't have done it without you!
> 
> Now, if you'll switch off your mobile phones and sssh the kids at the front, the main feature is about to begin...

**Cybertronian** **Mining Operation**

**Planet** **Dromedon**

**A** **very long time ago**

 

Nothing on Dromedon was ever dry. No matter how hard you tried, the infernal _damp_ got everywhere. It seeped into every piece of equipment, every storage crate, every _joint_. Every night you came off patrol soaking and even after a full rest cycle, you still squelched when you moved.

Worse still, the conditions allowed the local plants to flourish to an unholy degree. Gigantic trees blocked out most of the natural light, their boughs weaving together into an impenetrable mesh that made low-level flight impossible. What wasn’t blocked off by branches was festooned with creepers and vines, the sort that clung and stuck and caught until you became so hopelessly tangled up in the things that you couldn’t move. Algae and mould bloomed _everywhere_ , on every surface that was porous enough to take them, leaving the few bits of truly solid ground slippery and treacherous. If that wasn’t bad enough, the rest of the ground consisted entirely of a layer of weeds and slime covering the kind of bog that sucked you inexorably downwards, your body flooding with foul black sludge.

The only thing worse than the plant life was the animal life.

Snarling, Megatron fired a salvo of energy bolts into the whirling mass of slick purple bodies. The burning red light simply vanished into the creatures’ midst. It must have killed or at least injured a dozen of them but their sheer numbers made it impossible to tell that any had fallen. Around him, the rest of the battalion kept up similarly futile barrages, most while trying to free themselves from the various pitfalls the terrain offered.

Nothing seemed to deter the bats. Most weapons only succeeded in dispersing them for a while. Only chemical weapons seemed remotely effective on a large scale and the atmospheric conditions made it virtually impossible to deploy those on a useful scale. They just kept on coming, weaving through the trees with almost unnatural precision, their bodies flexing and contracting as easily as any Cybertronian’s, allowing them to flit through the tightest of gaps. And the instant they got into a reasonably open space, they swarmed and became clouds of snapping jaws and flashing talons, all the while screeching and screaming until the din filled the forest, echoing and rebounding over and over again.

“Look out!”

Megatron was already in motion by the time the cry reached his audios, ducking below the plummeting bat’s outstretched claws. He lashed out with a balled fist, catching the animal a devastating blow to the spine. Ion bolts whizzed over his head, neatly bisecting a second bat as it tried to take advantage of his momentary distraction.

“This is hopeless!” Optrion yelled, dropping into the gulley to join his commander.

“I’ll welcome your suggestions,” Megatron grated back, repaying the squad leader by blowing yet another bat into charred meat nano-cycles before it could take a bite out of Optrion’s arm.

“We can’t just keep blasting away at them,” the red and blue mech shouted, continuing to blast away, “There’s too many of them this time!”

“Are you just going to repeat the painfully obvious for dramatic effect?” came the acerbic reply, bellowed over the howling of the swarm and the shriek of weapons fire.

“My point is, sir, that we need to split them up somehow – stop them attacking us all at once.” Optrion swivelled abruptly, taking out a particularly large and vicious-looking beast that had been dive-bombing a lanky green warrior fighting to haul an insensate tank out of the swamp. 

“An excellent idea – but since we’re completely surrounded and up to our knees in a _slagging_ _swamp_ , how were you suggesting we draw them off? Hope they’ll follow us into the ground?” Megatron punctuated this sarcastic question by half-transforming – far enough for his rail gun to come together – and launching two proximity missiles. The resulting explosions blew gaping holes in the bats’ ranks, which promptly closed up again, the maddened fury of the monsters unabated. “Of course, if there were any solid ground in this wretched place,” he grumbled, retaking biped form, “I could change properly and even the odds.”

“I was thinking sir,” Optrion put in with remarkable composure, “These things home in on our energy signatures, yes?”

“Yes! Something useful before I rust, Iaconian!”

“The charge in our armour,” he continued quickly, “That’s a big part of our detectable signatures – perhaps if we drained it or…inverted its polarity, it would…distort our signatures enough to put the bats off – or at least confuse them long enough for us to get the upper hand.”

Megatron threw him a brief, incredulous look. “That has to be the most ludicrous idea I’ve ever heard!

A bat flashed past, its talons slicing a broad gash along his back. Optrion’s hand shot out, closing tight around the thing’s barbed tail. With one mighty heave, he flung it against the nearest tree. “You didn’t say they had to be _good_ suggestions, sir.”

Grunting, Megatron straightened, his self-repair systems already working to seal off the damaged sections. A moment later, he triggered his com-link. “All units: initiate a polarity reversal within your charged armour on my mark. Mark!”

The swamp lit up with the glare of momentary electrical discharges. Megatron’s frame sparked for an instant, a strange disorientating sensation flooding his body. Optrion actually flinched, clearly unprepared for the physical effect of the inversion.

The bats reacted instantly. The swarm lifted out of the gulley, a visible jerk of surprise running through the cloud of wings and fangs. Then, all at once, it broke apart, great swathes peeling away and disappearing back into the canopy. Freed from the constant attacks, the Cybertronian warriors were suddenly able to aim with considerably more accuracy and hundreds of the startled creatures were cut down as they raced for the safety of their nests. Staring up as the last of them vanished behind a maze of foliage, Megatron let out a long, low hiss of static. He looked down to see Optrion, water dripping from his every part, wearing the expression of one extremely surprised his plan had actually worked.

“That settles it,” Megatron growled, shaking his head in a futile effort to dislodge his own coating of slime, “First chance I get, you’re being promoted.


	2. Life Goes On

**Tava Szenda Birthing Well**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

Diatrion was beginning to feel just the tinniest bit redundant.

In theory he and the rest of the white and blue liveried Civic Guardsmechs were there to provide security for the Prime’s visit to the Tava Szenda Well. Maintaining inter-state security was, after all, the sole function of the Civic Guard and this was very much an inter-state event.

But of course the Prime was flanked at all times by a cadre of gold-armoured ceremonial bodyguards, and shadowed at all times by several dull grey _full-time_ bodyguards, so his security was already doubly ensured. And the Well itself was under the protection of highly trained members of the Order of the Dai, each one a master of Metalikato, Circuit Su and a dozen other arcane martial arts, so anyone trying to do harm to the vast pool of protomatter would be sliced into spare parts before they got anywhere near it. And each of the surrounding city states had dispatched members of their own police forces – invariably those built along lines that discouraged boisterous conversation, let alone aggravated assault – to handle security for their individual delegations, so no one really had to worry about the presiding officials’ safety. And by long tradition, all those who wished to witness the miracle of creation were kept at a respectful distance by the Circuit Masters who tended the Well, whose sole purpose was to preserve the purity of the raw stuff of life that heaved and swelled within.

In fact, when you got right down to it, the only reason the Civic Guard was there at all was to make sure that the event didn’t dissolve into a four way argument over who held jurisdiction.

This time, no one seemed in the least bit inclined to argue over anything. Even the Vosian and Tarnian delegations seemed content merely to glare at each other from opposing ends of the grand observation deck. For not unrelated reasons, the phrase ‘stultifyingly boring’ kept reoccurring in Diatrion’s thoughts.

At least the surroundings were pleasant. Indeed, they were spectacular. The Well sat in the natural pit formed by the confluence of three of the great chasms that ran between Cybertron’s thousands of continental plates. Huge pipes and armatures grew from the encircling cliffs, the ever-shifting bones of a vast machine, interlocking and pulling apart in time to some ineffable beat. The Well itself was a roughly circular bowl sunk deep into the subsurface, the rough, raw ground giving way gradually to silvery almost-liquid. Strange currents tugged the pool this way and that, shapes forming one instant to be swept away the next. Sometimes smooth cables would thread their way under the surface, moving like lightning. Sometimes weird shapes would emerge, criss-crossing patterns of metal shards or hexagonal blocks intersected with one another. Sometimes the whole mass would begin to coalesce on a single point, one bubble that would surge lethargically upwards only to collapse back down, lacking the energy to break free. The motion of the Well was mesmerising, chaotic but full of tantalising hints of an underlying order that, if one just stared long enough, might allow a glimpse of something greater than the physical world…

Diatrion snapped back to attention, fixing his optics on a point well away from the Well, high in the observation deck where the Tagan dignitaries were taking their place among the throng. He was supposed to be watching for trouble – however unlikely it was to happen – not trying to commune with the Allspark. He had to be focused, ready for anything.

“Something wrong?” asked one of the two guardsmechs manning the observation post with him.

“No,” he replied, a little too quickly.

The other guardsmech, the eldest and most experienced of the trio by quite a way, chuckled. “He’s just bored. Like the rest of us.”

Shaking his head ruefully, realising there was little point protesting the assessment, Diatrion said mildly, “Just trying to stay focused.”

Clutch – a nickname earned long ago – simply chortled again and thumped Diatrion on the shoulder with one oversized hand. “Don’t worry. Shouldn’t be more than a deca-cycle or so before they start getting on with it properly. And the ceremony itself shouldn’t last till past midday.”

Mesinat, the third guardsmech, let out a long, low groan. With considerable effort, Diatrion clamped down on the urge to do the same.

It was going to be a very long day.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The East Merchant District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

 

It had been a very long day.

Aratron lifted the beaker of energon and poured it into his chest inlet port with a satisfied hum. The highly refined fuel hit his systems with a rush of energy, jolting him out of his lethargy. His optics brightened considerably and he sat up straighter, a spasm in his fingers nearly causing him to lose his grip on the beaker.

“You looked like you needed that,” Calitae told him from behind the bar, leaning her elbow on the burnished surface, “Racetrack working you too hard again?”

“New stock,” he told her with a grimace, “Had me running raw sheets up from the docks all day.”

“You? What is he, too tight to hire a proper hauler?”

“Can’t afford it.”

The thickset orange feme nodded sagely. “Tough times.”

Taking in another draught of fuel, Aratron glanced around the room. The dingy oil-house was largely empty, a few regular patrons filling out a couple of tables, nothing more. The thunder of traffic filtered down from the expressway above as a distant roar, the occasional heavy transport setting the wall hangings rattling. A visualizer cube projected a news feed into the air, images and data-streams from the Prime’s visit to one of the Qosho Region’s Birthing Wells. No one was paying much attention to it.

“You seen Gauun lately?” Calitae asked, picking up a beaker and a buffing pad.

Aratron frowned. “Not for a few days.”

“Wow.” The barkeeper began polishing. “You two fallen out again?”

“Not since last stellar cycle.”

“That the time he got you chucked over a cliff?”

“Yup.”

“How long didn’t you speak to each other that time?”

“Day and a half.”

“Wow,” Calitae repeated, putting down the now-shining beaker and reaching for another. The treads slung across her back shifted a little. “So a few days means, what, he’s got himself run down by a train?”

“Dunno.” Sloshing the last of his fuel around in its container, Aratron looked across at the visualizer, aware of a surge in the information it was throwing out. The Prime had just entered the concourse leading down to the Well. Echoing the crowds in the images, a murmur of “hail the Flame, hail the Prime” ran around the oil-house, some of the mechs even lifting their beakers in salute.

“He’s probably just caught up doing ‘art’ or whatever,” Aratron said when the moment had passed.

“Doing art _and_ whatever, I’ll have you know!” cried a voice from the door.

Gauun burst in like a small silver and black rocket, charging over to the bar gesticulating wildly and talking nonstop. “Honestly, I take a couple of days out of my busy social schedule to seal the greatest deal – so far – of my professional career and everyone assumes I must have dropped off the face of the planet. What is it with you people? Can’t face the thought of life without me? A fresh can of fuel for my friend, Calitae, and one for me and one for yourself! Best quality you’ve got! I’m in the mood for getting completely blasted!”

Calitae and Aratron exchanged incredulous looks. “His processor’s finally gone and fried itself,” the mech muttered eventually.

“Just as long as he can pay for it,” the feme said with a shrug, and reached for a drum of high-grade.

“Fweee!” Gauun whacked Aratron on the door-wing. “Thanks a lot for all that faith you have in me. Really makes my day. Lucky for me that _I_ have faith in me, otherwise I’d be the complete loser you seem to think I am – despite all the evidence, I might add.”

“What evidence is this?” Calitae asked, placing freshly filled beakers on the bar, “I’ve always thought you were a loser too.”

Snatching up one of the cans, Gauun threw back his head and chugged down half his fuel in one go, pouring it straight into his mouth. Slamming the container back down again, he grinned broadly and regally extended a hand. An image appeared above it, a burly black mech with bronze trim covered head to foot in garish cyan patterns. The hologram revolved slowly, revealing that the lurid designs wound their way across every part of the mech’s body.

“You are looking at this season’s decals for the West Sector Athletics Team,” Gauun explained, before snapping his hand closed and dismissing the image, “And now you’re looking at the mech who’s been paid a whole heap of shannix for designing them.” Looking infuriatingly pleased with himself, he hopped onto one of the bar-perches, the seat reforming to accommodate him.

“They paid you for those?” Aratron deadpanned.

“We can’t afford to turn the lights up full and that bunch of wannabe gladiators can splash out on your scrawls?” Calitae shook her head disbelievingly. “There’s no justice in the universe.”

“Oh no, no!” Their newly wealthy friend spread his hands. “Please, hold back on the gushing praise and enthusiastic congratulations! I’ve only finally made the big break I’ve been working towards for _stellar cycles_.”

Unable to help himself, Aratron laughed. “This is all because you met that quad at the party at Garadus’, isn’t it? The one who was ‘in sports’, right?”

“What can I say? He liked my ‘low-grade decals’ – thought they added a touch of the streets to the team, help the people relate to them big, tough, fancy-formed athletes of his.”

“Besides which, you’re cheaper than most of the pro-artists, huh?”

“Still got enough out of it to pay you for fuel all night,” Gauun told Calitae with a smirk, “Keep ‘em coming! I owe my best friend here for not being there to make sure he gets himself higher ‘n the Celestial Temple for the past quartex.”

He whacked Aratron’s door-wing again, affectionately this time, and flapped his own encouragingly. Aratron lifted his beaker in half-mocking salute and drained it into his mouth in one go.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Tava Szenda Birthing Well**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

Sarristec would have given anything for a crystal goblet of the highest-grade fuel. Preferably with something borderline illegal dissolved in it to give it that little extra kick.

Being part of Vos’ delegation to oversee the Reaffirmation of the Tava Szenda Well was of course a great honour, although really his presence at the head of a group of sector representatives and wealthy business people was only natural. Most of the Lords of the Conclave did not fit with the image of a newly resurgent city grasping the future with both hands. He, by contrast, was well on his way to becoming the face of a progressive Vos, both at home and around the world. The reforms he had formulated had made him a popular symbol of a new, better order – which, coupled with his looks, had in turn made him the darling of the media networks.

The problem was that most of the Reaffirmation was taken up by long, interminable blessings delivered by a High Circuit Master whose voice resembled the high, shut-down inducing drone of a ventilation system. It rambled on and on and on about the mystery and magnificence of Cybertron, the glory of the Allspark and the wondrous gift of new life, until Sarristec was ready to cave its domed head in with its own staff of office. He did not even have the satisfaction of being able to complain about the proceedings. Along with everyone else on the observation deck, he had to maintain the image of his state and look like he was _interested_ in what was going on. A finer display of false sincerity and feigned attention it would have been harder to find. Even the Civic Guards, their bland white forms easily identifiable on the fringes of the gathering, managed to keep up an air of respectful attentiveness and they must surely have been the most bored of them all, their presence being as superfluous as it was.

A stir went through the assembled dignitaries as the High Circuit Master finally slowed to a stop and, with much genuflection, beckoned the Prime forward. Sentinel strode to the Well’s edge, the midday sunlight glancing blindingly off his golden armour, and lifted a hand to the sky. “Brothers,” he boomed, his voice filling the great pit, “We are gathered today to witness the giving of the gift of life, to share in the miracle of creation and to welcome a new generation into this world. I stand here before you so that our forms may be shared by those who are to come, so that they too may enjoy the strength and the will that have made Cybertron great.”

As he spoke, the protomatter began to surge about more energetically, more and more half-formed shapes bubbling to the surface. He stepped forward, his feet disappearing into the silvery mass. “It is the will of the Allspark,” he intoned, optics blazing, “that the past shall embrace the future and that all shall share in the light of creation.”

White fire criss-crossed his body for a moment, a flare of information that swept outwards to flood the entire Well. Sarristec leaned forward, engrossed in the spectacle despite himself. The raw power released as the Matrix imprinted on the protomatter flashed and crackled across the pool, surging and flaring like a living thing. Words and images spilled from the maelstrom, instants of lucidity scattered into the ether by a mad whirling rush of data, glimpses into the mind of the Allspark.

Then the wave of light passed and the Prime stepped back out of the Well, his great frame sagging imperceptibly with the effort of imparting the commands that kept the protomatter within the narrow parameters that defined recognisable sentience. The High Circuit Master gestured with its staff and two acolytes hurried forward, their bodies still armoured, not yet the stripped, gilded skeletons of true Masters. Between them they carried a heavily reinforced container, the large black cylinder held within an intricate bronze lattice. At the Circuit Master’s touch, this slid aside, unfurling and rearranging itself to allow the box to open. From it, the ancient mechanoid took a hand-sized, almost disappointingly plain grey sphere. This it lifted, first towards the Prime, then towards the watching audience.

“The Template of the Mech Tron,” it announced grandly. And with that, it plunged the sphere into the Well.

The protomatter became frenzied. Bubble after enormous bubble erupted, the great domes shivering in the sunlight for a split micro-cycle before deforming, blank surfaces gradually giving way to more complex shapes. The transmutation accelerated as it went on, servos and gears, beams and pistons, hands and feet, all the parts of a working body flowing into existence, the template mapped on to reality. The heads were the last to form, momentarily blank then steadily filled out with the broad strokes of the final product, a mouth, optics, a central sensor node, the finer detail following almost immediately.

Hesitantly, uncertainly, following the ancient coding that had driven the Cybertronian race up to the surface of their world, fifty four protoforms made their way up on to the Well’s gently sloping shore, drawn instinctively to where the Prime waited. He saluted them, one forearm held horizontal across his chest-plate. Rapidly becoming accustomed to their shape and their minds, they copied the gesture, some more readily than others. “My brothers,” Sentinel called, voice carrying once more through the great pit, “Feel the sunlight on your skin. Feel the glory of the Matrix in your circuits. Feel your Sparks filling your bodies. And know that you are alive.”

Circuit Masters, golden reflections of the naked silver beings who had risen from the pool, gently shepherded them into three lines, communicating with the new-borns in the most basic and ancient of the Cybertronian languages. The Prime spoke to them again, his grand words guiding them towards the higher and more complex methods of communication. “You will go forth from this place, as did all those who came before you, to take your place in our world. As they did, you will begin your lives performing the humble, vital functions that preserve us all. As they did, you will rise in time, fulfilling the potential that lies within you. From this moment on, it is your duty to follow in their footsteps, to strive to be everything that you can be, to better yourself, to better your brothers, to better Cybertron. Let it be so, in the name Allspark, in the name of the greater whole in which we are all united, now and forever, until all are one!”

“Till all are one!” roared the crowds obediently. “Till all are one!” echoed the protoforms, caught up in the atmosphere.

“Till all are one,” repeated Sarristec sarcastically, more or less to himself. He looked down at the mechs who had just clawed their way out of Cybertron’s skin and wondered how many of them would ever rise from the ‘humble, vital functions’ of the menial classes. No more than a handful, if that. Since before Sarristec had come online, template and Well had dictated what you were or were not likely to achieve. They decided the forms you could take when you were formatted, the line of work your body fitted you for, the respect you got from society, your ultimate place in the world. And fundamentally, the Mech Tron line was cast in the menial mould, whether it emerged from Tava Szenda or Verous Klyda, whether it was formatted as a bulk in Tagan or a flyer in Vos.

The Prime had not lied when he said that each of the protoforms would rise in time to fulfil their potential. Society had simply decided long ago that that potential was very small.

And as he turned to converse with the wealthy, powerful mechs around him, Sarristec smiled with reaffirmed confidence that the Mech Tec line had very great potential indeed.


	3. Homecoming

**Military Spaceport**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

Optrion savoured the feel of Cybertron’s surface, cool and welcoming beneath his wheels. It was good to be back.

The massive space cruisers that dominated the landing field spilled vehicles of every size and shape out across the spaceport, a flood of colour flowing from their gaping bellies. Hoots and cries rang out as the returning mechs jostled and shouted at each other, the ground-side officials fighting a constant battle to keep the exuberant warriors under control and ensure that the equipment tenders they were hauling were delivered to the right places. Above, flyers hauled heavier loads out through the cruisers’ upper doors, or flitted under their great wedge-shaped hulls to attach refuelling lines and begin maintenance.

There was a palpable sense of relief in the air. Even if the returning soldiers could not claim the battles won on Anska and Dromedon as resounding triumphs, they had at least survived to see their homeworld again. The dozen solemn processions of oval pods spoke all too eloquently of how many had not done so.

Driving into one the loading bays, Optrion unhitched his trailer, allowing it to be seized by automated loaders and hoisted up into the cavernous maw of the main warehouse. Freed from his burden, he accelerated out across the last stretch of landing field and joined the steady stream of traffic heading along the expressway to the nearest garrison.

“Slag me but it’s good ta feel a road under ma wheels ag’in!” Ironhide hollered, racing up from behind, the rest of Optrion’s squad close on his tail.

“I’ll second that,” shouted Trailbreaker, closing up on the left flank, “Almost forgotten what it’s like to drive without my chassis filling up with mud!”

“And the air!” yelled Overhaul, his boxy maroon form swaying with the speed, “It’s clean!”

“All right, mechs, don’t get over excited,” Optrion cautioned, slowing slightly to force the others to do the same, “We’re not on leave yet.”

Suitably chastened, they formed up into a more organised convoy just as the roadway abruptly dropped away in front of them, a whole section hinging downwards to transfer them into the labyrinthine garrison complex below.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Planetary Defence Directorate Garrison Optir Prima**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

They had been assigned a long, arched chamber on the fifth level, a bare room lined with rest bays and not much else. Lockers unfolded from the floor as they transformed, each adapting to a particular warrior’s requirements at a touch.

 

“Ok, yah lazy slaggers, get yer kit cleaned an’ stowed!” Ironhide boomed, already pulling weapons out of internal storage, “No one gets outta here ‘afore me an’ the boss mech see that yah all ‘ve put away those big dangerous guns ah yers! Dun wanta hafta have th’ White ‘n Blues callin’ me away from mah high-grade cos one ‘a yuh glitches has put a hole in some home-town empty fer jostlin’ yer in the street!”

“Yes sir! No sir!” the squad chorused, exchanging grins while they obediently off-loaded their various arsenals into the waiting receptacles.

Optrion smiled to himself, nodded to a smirking Ironhide and entered the partitioned vestibule that served as officers’ quarters. He held his ion rifle up to the light for a moment, admiring the gouges and scratches along the barrel. Repeated and sustained scrubbing had removed most of the evidence that it had been dropped in a swamp but the shrikebat bite was a permanent memento, one that would probably dramatically shorten the gun’s lifetime. Given how many of the bats lifetimes he had shortened, he supposed that was hardly an unfair trade.

He allowed the locker to gulp down the rifle and the rest of his armaments and returned to the main room, where Ironhide had the squad standing at attention, as neat and pristine as their equipment. Once he had completed his inspection and the lockers were sealed back into the floor, Optrion seized the moment and addressed his troops.

“Before you rush out of here to go and enjoy yourselves at the expense of the local populace’s peace and quiet, I have something to say.” He paused a moment, looking from mech to mech. “It has been an honour serving with you all. Every one of you has proven your valour and honour on the field of combat. You have made me proud. You have made Cybertron proud. And, most importantly, you have done justice to those who fell at our side, those who we could not bring home. For them, in their name, I thank you.”

“As do I.” All optics turned to the door and fifteen arms shot across fifteen chests. Megatron, still armed and as towering as ever, responded with a salute of his own. “Your leader does _you_ proud,” he told the assembled warriors, “As much with his modesty as for the accuracy of his praise. You are heroes, every one of you, there is no doubt about that. And no doubt every one of you will agree that he is too.” A cheer of agreement went up at that. Megatron smiled. “Exactly. But since he refuses to seek out the rewards of that heroism, it is left to the rest of us to force them upon him. Op Mech Trion Novus Zar!” he barked with sudden sharpness, “Step forward!”

A thrill of nervousness shot through Optrion’s systems as he obeyed, mingled with more than a little pride at his superior’s compliments. Megatron reached out and laid a hand across the insignia displayed on the squad leader’s shoulder. “By the authority of the Planetary Defence Directorate, I am required and commanded to confer on you the rank and responsibilities of Lieutenant Commander, with immediate effect.” A burst of data from his palm forced the insignia into a new shape, replacing the square on its end with two triangles either side of a vertical bar. The ident-signal shifted too, the security clearances automatically updating.

Another, louder clear went up. Megatron stepped back and he and Optrion saluted each other.

“Thank you sir,” Optrion began, “This is an honour –”

“I said I’d get you promoted,” the silver tank interrupted firmly, “And I always carry through on my threats. Besides, don’t you think you deserve the rank?”

“Everyone else in the room seems to, sir.” Indeed, Ironhide was wearing an almost impossibly smug I-told-you-so expression.

“That would be because you _earned_ it,” Megatron explained patiently, as one might to a slightly addled protoform, “And not for being humble.”

“No sir. I earned if for sticking my arms down tank barrels.”

Megatron laughed, encouraging the others to do the same. “Hah! Yes, that is _exactly_ what I need: subordinates who get blown to bits on a regular basis. Well, that concludes the pleasant part of my day. Now I have to go lead a parade. But I’m sure I can leave you mechs to take care of congratulating your newly elevated commanding officer.”

To a loud refrain of “Yes sir!” he took his leave of them. Optrion turned to Ironhide.

“Told yah,” the older soldier said with a grin.

“You did. You also promised you’d pay for a round of high-grade.”

“Ah did. An whut are you buncha scrapheaps lookin’ aht?”

“I think they’ve just decided not to let you out of their sight for the rest of the night,” Optrion told him, clapping him companionably on the shoulder, “All right mechs,” he bellowed, “form up and roll out! We’ve got some leave to begin!”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

“Xaaron?”

 

The Emirate for Nova Cronum ignored the sound of his name and continued to stare out across the golden spires arrayed before him. In the distance, crowds were gathered around one of the great gates that gave access to the wider world, flocks of avirs circling over them in order to catch every last instant for the newsfeeds. The single expressway running from the gate to the Celestial Temple was lined with hundreds of banners and even from so far away, the regal forms of the honour guards were clearly visible against the grey road.

Soft footsteps approached as Traachon joined him on the balcony. “Is something wrong?” the Emirate for Iacon asked quietly.

“Is it wrong to want to watch the festivities?” The question was tinged with wry humour.

“You never struck me as someone who enjoyed ‘festivities’.” Traachon was undeterred. “Certainly you always seem to make a point of avoiding them whenever possible.”

The gate was open now, the impenetrable walls of Iacon breached to admit the Prime. He rolled in, a huge, many wheeled vehicle moving with regal leisure, his sweeping lines as distinctive as the utilitarian silver tank trundling along beside him. They were of a size, Sentinel and Megatron, though otherwise they could hardly have been more dissimilar. The warrior’s squared-off bulk, host to a wealth of cannons, was dramatically at odds with the Prime’s streamlined, peace-time form.

“I wanted to admire Sentinel’s…timing,” Xaaron said at last, clasping his hands behind his back.

Traachon frowned. “His timing?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“No?” Xaaron smiled and gestured expansively at the approaching procession. “There is Sentinel, back from the morally dubious act of reaffirming Tava Szenda and he times his arrival to coincide precisely with Megatron’s triumphant return from the colonies. They enter Iacon together and share in the glorious image of victory. A rather neat arrangement, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean, morally dubious act?” Traachon demanded, legally trained mind homing in on the phrase, “How can you call the Prime’s duty a –”

Xaaron cut him off before he could finish the admonishment. “Every city-state is suffering from chronic overcrowding. We’ve exhausted the moons’ natural resources and we daren’t tap Cybertron’s any further because we simply don’t understand our world’s interior well enough to be certain we won’t irrevocably damage it. We are increasingly reliant on mining colonies outside our solar system – each of which, I might add, is controlled by one or other of the larger cities, making them even _more_ powerful and likely to quarrel – and the further we have to go to find planets whose resources can be refined into usable fuel, the more energy we have to expend bringing those resources back here to refine them. As a member of the High Council, as an _Emirate_ you are – I hope – painfully aware of all this. And you still have to ask me why I call ensuring that the Birthing Wells can continue to churn out viable protoforms is morally dubious act?”

“It is our moral duty to give the gift of life!” Clearly Traachon was astonished by the suggestion that it could be otherwise. “To give the gift of form to those who are yet to come! That is the founding principle of our civilisation! And whatever problems we face, that is the creed the High Council was formed to uphold! Would you have the Wells left to churn out mindless animals and shapeless abominations, denied the light of the Matrix and the glory of true _sentience_?”

“Turbo foxes consume less energy than the average Tron-line labourer,” Xaaron retorted flippantly, “And no – I would rather that we found a way to limit the Wells’ output completely, for the moment at least. Oh come now, Traachon,” he added, glancing over his shoulder at his fellow Emirate’s scandalised expression, “Even some Circuit Masters have been known to express that view.”

“And have been called heretics because of it! Xaaron…I say this as a friend…but that is a _dangerous_ view, one someone in our position cannot afford to express lightly…”

Xaaron was touched by the genuine concern in the other mech’s voice, if more than a little amused by it. “Perhaps in Iacon. But even here, I think you would find many who would readily exchange faith in the Allspark’s divine plan for a tank full of fuel and the promise of more tomorrow.”

The procession had reached the halfway mark, where the monolithic Decagon cast its shadow across the roadway. He admired again the pleasing contrivance of the truck and the tank sharing the adoration of the masses, the twin faces of Cybertron’s heritage being cheered for giving the people a glimpse of victory, real or imaginary.

At his shoulder, Traachon made several small noises, as though he were trying to speak but words kept failing him. Finally, he managed, “And what of your faith, Xaaron? Do _you_ trust in the Allpsark?”

“I’m a politician, my friend,” the golden mech replied without turning, “My faith is negotiable.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Dead End**

**Tagan**

**Cybertron**

 

“Well, he’s gone,” Glitter announced. The white quad rose and slunk away from the body, retracting his sensor arrays. “Mustn’t have seen it coming – didn’t have time to transfer enough code away from the damaged parts of his body, didn’t consolidate fast enough – and then there wasn’t enough left of him to think with.”

Diatrion exchanged a pointed look with Talainat and bent to retrieve a fragment of blue armour. “Can you confirm why this still has colour?”

“Lacquered. Looks almost genuine, doesn’t it.” The medic patted another piece. “I’d say he had a touch of chromo-deficiency. Either that or he was just showing off. ‘Look at me, I can afford to have _real_ cyrianate plating, not just change my skin to mimic it.’”

“Can you tell where the lacquer might have been administered?” Diatrion asked.

“How should I know?” Glitter shook his head irritably. “Damnit, I’m a doctor, not a fashion expert.”

“Can you at least give us a full-spectrum scan of it?” Talainat asked, pointing a sensor probe of his own at the blue metal scattered about. Information began to spool across the windscreen that formed his chest-plate.

“Of course I can,” the medic huffed, “Want me to do it here or back at base?”

“Here. We need to get him identified fast.”

True enough, Diatrion agreed silently, contemplating the sorry sight before them. The mech – Glitter’s examination had confirmed it _was_ a mech, not a feme or a cyol, though it was impossible to tell at a glance – lay sprawled in the middle of the street, what remained of his arms and legs stretched out in an almost comical fashion. Fragments of his fancy armour were spread all around him, their bright colours a sharp contrast to the dullness into which the rest of him had faded. All distinguishing marks had been bludgeoned from the body and with the fragmentation of his core programing, only a few general facts were immediately obvious.

He had been rich – the lacquered armour spoke volumes about that. He had been a grounder – he was too small to be a flyer – and probably something sporty, given the comparative low mass of what was left of him. And he had definitely not been one of the empties who usually inhabited Dead Ends. Whoever he had been, he had been a long way from home when he died.

“Why would someone wealthy enough to afford fancy mods come down here?” Talainat wondered aloud, by chance echoing Diatrion’s line of thought.

“Perhaps to find more mods,” the larger mech suggested, waving at the ugly, forbidding buildings, “Good place to meet a supplier, if you weren’t planning on asking too many questions.”

Except that didn’t ring true at all. Despite what politicians claimed when they went on their little ‘clean up the city’ tirades, Dead Ends were generally not where most of the illegal modding happened. Dealers had their images to maintain and dead habitation districts were not likely to put customers at their ease. Sure, they usually operated out of pretty run-down and crime-infested areas but actual Dead Ends? Not likely. Practically unheard of, in fact.

“For some sort of deal, anyway,” he amended, “One that needed to be done away from prying optics.”

“In the middle of the street?” Talainat sounded as convinced as Diatrion felt.

“A bet of some kind, maybe? Came here to prove how tough he was…”

“And a gang of empties got the drop on him? Could be…there’re enough signs of a struggle to fit with that…and if I were an empty and I saw some high-grade racer decked out in all his gear, I think I’d want to rip his arms off too.”

“Except…” Diatrion swung around slowly, following the pattern of foot-marks and tyre-tracks. “No, that doesn’t fit.” He jerked a thumb at the corpse. “That damage isn’t the work of a mob – or if it is, it’s the best trained mob I’ve ever seen. Blunt trauma, sure, but taking out _all_ the distinguishing marks?”

“Not likely,” Talainat admitted, “Especially when –”

“Your scans,” Glitter interrupted brusquely, beaming the files to the two of them, “The lacquer is uninteresting, well formulated but nothing special. Not local, trace elements suggest it was mixed up somewhere between Praxus and Polyhex.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a fashion expert,” commented Talainat.

“Yeah, but I’m an excellent forensics officer. The body’s base materials suggest it was formatted in that region too, by the way – and the proto-structure almost certainly came from one of the Praxian Wells. Not Verous Klyda though. Zinc content is too low.”

Diatrion gave an annoyed hum. “Well, at least that cuts out most of Praxus’ population. But it doesn’t exactly tell us what in the Pit a Praxian is doing lying dead here. Are you going to be able to narrow him down any further?”

“Not here. Give me a deca-cycle in the lab and I _might_ be able to give you more. No promises.”

“Right.” Diatrion signalled the constables scanning the immediate area. “Let’s call in a flyer and get the body moved back to base. I want every last piece collected and sealed for transport. We need to know who this mech was before we can work out why he was killed, so let’s make sure we don’t leave any important bits of him behind.”

He looked back down at the corpse and scowled. A mech killed half a world away from where he had come online, for no readily apparent reason, in the middle of a Dead End. The first case back on the beat just couldn’t be an easy one, could it?


	4. Media Relations

**The Grand Slam Report**

**Global Newsfeed**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _Tonight, as we explore the causes of the increasing tension in the Qosho Region, we welcome Lord Sarristec of Vos to the ‘feed.”_

“And please let me say that it is a pleasure and a privilege to be here again, Grand Slam.”

“ _Hhm. Then let’s begin with the question everyone’s asking: is Vos moving towards pulling out of the Inter-State Accords and breaking away from the High Council completely?”_

“You have a gift for cutting to the core of the matter. At this time, I can state categorically that it is neither Vos’ wish nor intention to break with the unity that has been the mark of our planet’s society for so long. At the same time, of course, we will continue to assert out individuality within that unity. Every city-state has the right to self-determination, to set its own long-term goals and to perfect its economic and social models. We are merely exercising that right – and since it is a right granted by the High Council in the first place, the accusations that we are deliberately opposing the Council seem to me somewhat absurd.”

“ _Surely it is also a requirement of unity under the High Council that every city contributes to supporting the Civic Guard and the Defence Directorate?”_

“As we have stated many times, we are not in any way shirking out responsibilities towards planetary security. I’m sure everyone’s getting quite bored of hearing us answer this particular question. Yes, we have reduced the energy allocated to Council _administrative_ facilities within Vos’ borders but _only_ to the administrative facilities. The Civic Guard base, the Defence Directorate communications relay – these remain fully operational.”

“ _Indeed. But one of the administrative facilities that has suffered from an energy reduction – some might say a_ crippling _energy reduction – is the Fuel Distribution Monitoring Office. In light of the fact that Vos is one of the largest suppliers of fuel to not only Qosho but to the Lakatera region as well, is this not a self-serving move intended to prevent greater scrutiny of your city’s dealings with less powerful states?”_

“Vos has nothing to be ashamed of with regard to our dealings with other cities. We consider it our duty to share the bounty of our mining operations with those states unable to conduct such operations themselves. And by and large, I think you will find that they will have nothing but good things to say about our conduct in this most vital of undertakings.”

“ _Certainly. I’m sure they don’t want to risk upsetting you. Tell me, Lord Sarristec, how do you respond to the accusations that Vos has been hording the cleanest fuel for itself and has been exporting largely only lower-quality product?”_

“I’m sorry, was that supposed to be a shocking revelation? It is no secret that we reserve the highest quality fuel for our own citizens. Vos may strongly believe in sharing energy but fuel distribution is still an economic arrangement and we still owe a duty of care first and foremost to our own population. We are certainly not peddling low-grade fuel for exorbitant prices – indeed, we offer extremely reasonable rates on low-grade to the industrial centres it which it can be put to good use – but at the same time, we are not about to put profit above the needs of our people. They place their trust in us and we do everything in our power to support and maintain them.”

“ _And to maintain a healthy military force?”_

“You said yourself that we are one of the largest fuel suppliers on Cybertron. We must be prepared to protect our infrastructure, for the sake of all those who rely on us, both within and without our borders.”

“ _Which is why you have been systematically upgrading the security of your pipelines and pumping stations?”_

“Of course. I hardly need to remind the viewers of this feed that unrest is spreading throughout the more impoverished provinces. Unlike less enlightened states, we are not responding to this by curtailing civil liberties or closing our borders but by working positively to strengthen our society and improve life for the less well off. That said, we are not blind to the threat posed by those misguided individuals who believe they can force change on others through violence. We will take whatever steps are necessary to protect our investments and to ensure that we do not let down those who are relying on us.”

“ _So these security upgrades have nothing to do with the similar programme being undertaken by the Tarnian government?”_

“I’m sure that Tarn is simply responding to the same pressures that we are. It is only logical to protect operations that are vital to Cybertron as a whole. Tarn is perhaps not as culturally sophisticated as other cities, but it is certainly run on very logical lines.”

“ _So, you can confirm that the Vosian upgrades are not influenced by Tarn’s upgrades?”_

“I believe I have already explained our reasoning. I think perhaps we would be at risk of insulting your audience if we were to go over them again.”

“… _Lord Sarristec of Vos, thank you for your time.”_

“My pleasure as always.”

“ _Now, earlier today I was able to talk to one of the leaders of the militant group Fuel For All, an organisation that claims that the larger city-states are using their control of planetary resources to keep a privileged elite in power…”_

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Gauun’s Studio**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

 

The room did not look like a high-flying artist’s studio. Not surprising given that until recently it had been the home of a lazy, easily distracted no-hoper. Aratron looked around in the vain hope of finding some clean, clear space. There wasn’t the tiniest bit of floor that wasn’t covered in decal fabrication units, data columns, old oil cans or weird junk that could have been anything from medical equipment to abstract sculpture. Technically, it was supposed to be a resource-saving combination of workplace and living quarters but it was hard to imagine it as either.

The ‘artist’ himself was perched on top of a data column, optics fixed on the poor quality holograms being projected, fountain style, into the middle of the room. “Come on Wheels!” he urged, waving an arm encouragingly, “Stop standing around and come and watch! It’ll be on in a cycle!”

“Great…” Taking very careful steps, Aratron crossed to join his friend.

“Aren’t you even a bit excited?” Gauun asked, “Because I am! My work, out there on the feeds! It _is_ great! It’s gonna be _brilliant_!”

“Good…yeah…”

With exaggerated effort, he tore his gaze from the feed and looked up at Aratron. “Gimme something here, will you? This is my big break – can’t you be the least bit happy for me?”

“I _am_ happy for you.”

“You don’t sound it. I mean, that didn’t sound sincere at all. In fact you sound really scrapped off…”

“I’m not.” Aratron’s wheels turned slightly. “But not everyone’s having your luck right now…”

Gauun began to reply but a sudden shift in the central hologram snatched him back to the feed. “Hey, look! It’s on!”

An elegant winged mech with a yellow face, his sleek frame decked out in a perfect balance of greys, purples and blues, stood in the glare of a dozen spotlights, posing just a little bit too long for the cameras. “So what’s revving tonight?” he asked loudly, giving a little flourish with his hands. Images filled the air in front of him, people of all shapes and sizes decked out in the latest fashions. “For the trendy mech and feme seeking that up-to-the-cycle look – racing stripes are in! For the daring quad – check out this textured armour! For the dashing avir, get everyone staring up at you with these fractal wing decals! For the trac about town – it’s a classic and it’s still stunning – yes, chrome is back back back!”`

Suddenly the camera pitched, the host’s head lurching into close-up as a klaxon went off in the background. “Fashion warning! Spots, sun patterns and side fins are out out out! Lose them now or lose your fashion cred! Even if you have to go in for a total reformat, get rid, get rid, get rid!” The image lurched back to a full body view, following him as he glided casually across the stage. “Now, I’m not one for one-on-one violence myself but it’s hard to deny that the arenas have produced some of the most striking colours schemes out there. Have you _seen_ Clench? I mean, wow! Pink neon and gold on midnight blue with a green trim? Gorgeous! I’d watch that guy swing a battle axe any day of the quartex! And it looks like Praxus’ West Sector Heavy Club want to look just as good while they’re grinding gears in the ring!”

Aratron jerked and looked questioningly at Gauun. “‘Heavy Club’?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“You said ‘athletics team’.”

“Um…yeah…” The artist shifted awkwardly. “Well, it’s a kind of athletics, isn’t it?”

“If you call two mechs trying to pulverise each other, ‘athletic’.”

“They have to run around and transform a lot when they’re fighting! That’s gotta count as athletic! Now will you shut up? This is it!”

A large, big-wheeled mech appeared, his black armour covered in Gauun’s swirling cyan patterns. He looked a bit stunned, as if someone had dragged him out into the spotlight having just hit him hard in the processor. The host fluttered around him wearing an exultant expression and talking non-stop. “It’s got style!” he enthused, “It’s got pizazz! It’s a look you won’t be able to tear your optics away from, even in the heat of battle!”

“They paid you to make them targets?”

“Whee-eels!” Gauun flapped an arm, frantically signally for quiet.

“And the best part,” the host gushed, “is that this is from a complete unknown! Yes, yes, yes! This is utterly exclusive first look at the first showing from a hot shot young designer who’s sure to be in high demand from now on!”

With much fanfare, Gauun’s info-net profile flashed across the feed, a burst of contact details and current projects. Then it was gone and the host was in motion again, yammering on about the latest upgrades and where to buy them.

“Was that it?” Aratron was not impressed.

Gauun, on the other hand, was bouncing up and down with excitement. “This is brilliant! I’m out there! My designs on the fashion feeds! I’ve arrived! I’m in the air! I’m ready for the big time! I’m –”

“Publicly linked to something everyone from the Magnus down has been trying to get banned for _mega_ -cycles –”

“ _Trying_ ,” Gauun emphasised quickly, “They’re never going to actually going to go through with it, are they?”

Aratron gave up. It was clear nothing was going to puncture his friend’s premature enthusiasm. Shoving the other mech gently aside, he tapped into the visualizer and switched feeds, searching for something more interesting than a million and one ways to make maintenance fun. Gauun protested but not much – he was already distracted, checking and rechecking his communications log for the flood of commissions that he obviously expected.

A newsfeed sprang up, an anchor feme talking over images of a stately blue mech at various high-grade social gatherings. The Civic Guard were appealing for witnesses to his last movements before he got himself murdered in a Dead End near Tagen. Apparently, he was a Praxian of some standing and it was a shocking sign of the times that he could have come to such an end. After watching for a moment, Aratron thumped his friend’s arm.

Refocusing on the outside world, the artist frowned at the holograms. “What?”

Aratron pointed at the murder victim. “Isn’t that the slagger who got us chucked over a cliff?”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The Palace of Law**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

Sarristec’s reflection admired him from the polished chrome that decorated the antechamber. The new navy blue detailing suited him perfectly, offsetting his otherwise maroon or white armour in a most pleasing fashion. Not too ostentatious, not too subtle, just enough to effortlessly draw the optic. The expense of external installation had been more than worth it. It really did make for a vastly superior finish.

A soft chime rang through the room, swiftly followed by the whisper of metal on metal as the far wall fractured and retracted, panels slipping aside to create a doorway. Pausing only long enough for the Palace’s security system to confirm once more that he had full Conclave authority, Sarristec strode through into Lord Taynset’s private chambers.

The room was a study in restrained opulence. Not for Taynset the showy grandeur favoured by so much of Cybertron’s political elite: the décor was sleek and streamlined, showcasing the same sweeping elegance for which Vos as a whole was justly famed. Silver and chrome dominated, shot through with delicate ultraviolet and the sheen of opals. Ranks of pedestals, set in the gaps between the curving support pillars, held examples of a dozen famous artists’ work. Delicate tracery followed the lines of the room, the major Vosian insignias a reoccurring motif within the complex patterns. There was light everywhere. It poured through the towering windows and was reflected again and again by a thousand mirrored surfaces until it too had been sculpted into a work of art.

If Vos was a hymn to flight, this room was the refrain sung soft and strong to anyone who stepped over the threshold.

Lord Taynset himself stood with his back to the door, staring out at the cityscape, information swirling around him. He did not turn to greet his guest at first and for a long moment, Sarristec was left in limbo, prevented by etiquette from doing anything but study the elder mech’s slim form, framed as it was against the sky. After an age, Taynset turned, wings stretching, the data-streams cutting out with unsettling abruptness. Sarristec pulled his own wings in slightly tighter and inclined his head. Lords of Vos did not bow to one another but a show of deference to the true power in the city was only proper.

Taynset lifted a hand, dismissing the formalities with a simple gesture. “My Lord Sarristec. It is good of you to take the time to answer my invitation.”

An invitation to attend the senior Lord in his private chamber was something you _made_ time for, as everyone was only too aware. Sarristec smiled and folded his fingers together. “Thank _you_ my Lord. I am honoured that you wish to speak to me.”

Taynset smiled back briefly. “I wished to say in person how well you presented yourself – and Vos – on the newsfeeds yesterday. You handled the interview with the skill and sensitivity I have come to expect from you. Now, more than ever, you are showing yourself to be the best public face our energy ministry could have.”

Accepting the praise with flattered gratitude, Sarristec drew up a mental list of everyone he had beaten to the position and quickly assessed how far ahead of them he still was.

“It is extremely pleasing to see one so young displaying so much potential – and _fulfilling_ it.” Stepping down from the platform, Taynset walked slowly over to admire an example of early Vosian sculpture, a delicate crystalline figure depicting an athlete in their moment of triumph. “You are, I think, the most forward-looking Lord to join the Conclave in a long time.” He tilted his head to the side. “Certainly, you are one of the most dynamic.”

“I only wish to do what I can for Vos, my Lord,” Sarristec told him earnestly, running through the different meanings that ‘dynamic’ could have. The last thing he wanted to do was to be seen as threatening to a mech who could dismantle his career with a couple of words.

“As do we all.” Taynset straightened, turning his attention fully to the other flyer. “I have a request, one I am certain you will be able and willing to fulfil.”

Forcing his face to remain composed, Sarristec fought back both eagerness and panic. “How may I be of service?”

“The upcoming negotiations with Praxus. It is in our interests to continue to supply their fuel needs – particularly with that wretched Tarnian cyol doing his best to undermine our standing with the Lakatera city-states. And as much as I trust Vvnet’s economic judgement, I feel that you would be able to communicate our terms with greater…finesse. Will you be amenable to leading the discussions in her place?”

“Of course!” Inwardly, Sarristec cursed himself for the trace of giddy glee that had crept into his voice. “I would be honoured,” he added in a more measured tone and then, daringly, “And may I say that your trust in my abilities is inspiring.”

“That trust is not hard to give.” Taynset gave his brief smile, optics brightening. “I have no doubt that great things lie in your future, my Lord Sarristec.”


	5. Fighting the Current

**Civic Guard Base**

**Tagan**

**Cybertron**

 

The coordinator for the Praxus Banking Network – a member of the Avir Alva line, naturally – regarded Diatrion with all the warmth and good humour for which the financial sector was renowned. “While our client is now tragically deceased, there are surviving interests in his affairs. At this time we do not have their permission to allow external access.” He looked coldly down his beak at the Civic Guardsmech. “Statutory privacy laws require me to deny your request.”

Diatrion’s patience had been straining ever closer to breaking point for the past two cycles. At this, it finally broke. “Sir,” he snapped, “Your client has been _murdered_. He is lying in our stasis crypt in _pieces_. I am trying to find out who is responsible and I have spent two deca-cycles being shunted between flunkies whose only purpose in life seems to be to _stop me from doing my job_. And now you’re saying I can’t view a mech’s personal financial records – and thus maybe find the reason he was _hacked to bits in a slum_ – because of _privacy laws_?”

“Exactly,” the avir responded, “Thank you for your enquiry.”

The communicator cut out, leaving Diatrion to stare in abject disbelief at empty air.

As extremely inviting a course of action as it might have been, he did not give full vent to his feelings towards the coordinator by smashing the communication dais. Instead, he filed a disclosure request with the Magnus’ office in Iacon, shunting copies to his regional overseer and the local legal corps to make absolutely certain that everyone who needed to know about the request had been informed. The slightest failure to follow procedure could be used to block the disclosure and he couldn’t afford to let that happen.

Of course, by the time he actually got to see those damned records, every last shred of useful evidence would have been edited out in accordance with a new ‘privacy policy’ or scrambled by a ‘technical error’. Article One of the Inter-State Accords might well have decreed that all citizens were charged with assisting any and all efforts to bring a murderer to justice but, as always, the unspoken amendment was that the law only applied to those without a way around it.

If there had been a way around dealing with the Praxus Banking Network, Diatrion would have been an extremely happy mech. As it was, he had absolutely no choice. Every other line of enquiry – so far as he had been able to pursue it – had been a dud. No one had witnessed the crime, or at least, no one was admitting to having done so. The local Sky Spy network only covered the Dead End at twenty-cycle intervals, leaving gaps big enough for pitched battles, let alone a solitary brutal murder. And while footage of the inner city expressways was continuous, it was no less useless. All it showed was the victim driving away from an up-market landing pad and towards the Dead End, perfectly in keeping with the testimony of the private shuttle who had flown him in from Praxus.

What was more, only the shuttle seemed to have been aware of his boss’s travel plans. His personal assistant, his stockbroker, his accountant and his clique – it would have been going too far to call them his friends – had all claimed complete ignorance. Even the shuttle had only known the destination, not the reason for going there.

And that was the problem.

Right up to the point at which his face had been ripped off, Konn Mech Tyrn had been – in Glitter’s colourful assessment – a perfectly normal over-modded, over-revved, over-energised waste of raw materials. He had been one of the darlings of the Praxian social world, a high-grade who, if not well liked, was certainly well connected. The kind of mech who got invited to parties for his name rather than his company and who had never done a day’s work that he could avoid. Exactly the sort of person liable to incite the rage of a down-on-their-luck labourer or an Empty, desperate for fuel. Exactly the wrong sort of person to be found anywhere near a Dead End.

Besides which, the attack had been too brutal to have been carried out by an Empty. It took a lot of power to so thoroughly destroy a body. Glitter had scanned the corpse down to the sub-atomic level and had concluded that the damage was almost entirely due to blunt trauma, probably inflicted with bare hands. Everything else had been caused by Konntyrn’s own systems as they sparked and flared in the last moments of his life. No Empty could have done all that. A labourer might have been able to, but labourers rarely hung around in Dead Ends if they could avoid it.

 _Everyone_ avoided Dead Ends. So why had Konntyrn travelled across an entire region to visit one?

Diatrion was becoming increasingly convinced that finding the answer to that question was the key to cracking the whole case. It made no sense and any investigator worth their oil knew to concentrate on the things that did not make sense.

He brought up the collated biography files, scanning them for the seven hundred and sixth time in an effort to find some deeper understanding of Konntyrn’s psychology. A stream of items clipped from the social feeds sped past, a window into a life that seemed to have contained little in the way of hardship. Cross-referencing with witness statements produced a picture of an opinionated bore without a care in the world. Reading it over yet again, Diatrion felt a twinge of sympathy with Glitter’s antipathetic summary of the mech’s character. In spite of himself, he could not help wondering if anyone would really miss Konntyrn.

He quickly put that thought aside – it was counterproductive and more than a little shameful – and focused instead on checking for any correlation between the companies in which Konntyrn had stakes and the recent bouts of rioting. He did not want to exclude the possibility that the death had been motivated by worker dissatisfaction – though as it turned out, most of the businesses were doing quite well. The worst of them had only made a few energy cuts, none of which were especially stringent. Not a particularly promising lead even if the crime hadn’t taken place a thousand hix from anywhere labourers with a grudge against Konntyrn might reasonably have been found.

That said, there was the sheen of something dodgy about a good many of those business interests. Among the numerous high technology companies were more than a few with dubiously vague remits and suspicious operating histories. Perhaps a scam had gone sour, leaving no option but to –

A message flag sprang into Diatrion’s awareness, the signature of the Magnus’ office pulsing out of the ether. He pulled the message up and was met with the formal declaration that his request had, after due consideration, been granted. The investigators working Case A-45967# now had full authority to request and receive the disclosure of all documentation relating to the financial dealings of Konn Mech Tyrn Verous Norne.

With a certain amount of satisfaction, Diatrion ordered the communications dais to reconnect him to the coordinator of the Praxus Banking Network.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Planetary Defence Directorate Garrison Optir Prima**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

The protesters did not respond well to the ministrations of Simfur’s security forces. Their anger more than made up for their disorganisation and the law enforcement officers were swiftly overwhelmed, lost beneath a tide of furious labourers. Flashes of energy crackled through the crowds, electricity arcing freely from fresh wounds to strike victim and attacker alike. Arms and legs, even whole torsos went flying in all directions, torn free through sheer brute force. Ironically, the mob’s make-shift weaponry was doing far less damage. Laser torches and welding tools were little use against light armour, just as that armour was little use in preventing the user being torn limb from limb.

By the time the Civic Guard moved in to reinforce their local counterparts, the riot encompassed a whole sector. Spilt fuel, ignited by stray sparks, filled the air was flame and smoke. The sound of metal on metal mingled with the thrum of suppressor beams and the howls of those caught in them. Heavy transports thundered in low, swinging spotlights on those still fighting arrest, those trying to flee and those too damaged to move. The protesters were gradually driven back, herded into the open spaces and locked into stasis, their unconscious forms piled up to be sorted out later.

One particularly huge mech tried to break out of the closing trap, charging full-throttle in vehicle mode, treads flying, earthmover blade lowered to smash guardsmechs out of the way. The white figures swarmed him, grabbing hold and laying into him with their shock batons. Painfully, inevitably, his desperate flight was brought to an end, leaving him broken at the side of the road, reverting to bipedal form only to collapse to the ground in agony –

The footage froze on that image, the big green worker at the feet of the law. Megatron stepped back and folded his arms, examining the hologram with blazing optics. Suppressed rage introduced a new tension into his fighter’s posture, the tell-tale signs of fury barely contained.

“How did this happen?” he asked, so quietly that the untrained observer would probably have thought it a rhetorical question. Ravage knew full well, however, that when Megatron said something aloud, no matter how quietly, he expected a response.

The quad flicked a paw dismissively. “Too many people, too little fuel. Not a formula for contentment.”

Megatron scowled. “We have fought wars on a hundred planets to bring fuel to Cybertron! There should be more than enough! And even if there isn’t, this –” he gestured violently at the frozen holograms “– this should not have happened! This waste of time and effort, fighting that achieves nothing – it should never have been _allowed_ to happen.” He lashed out, physically deactivating – and denting – the projector, and began to pace. Since the habitation cell was of military design and therefore not particularly spacious, this was not an effective means of dispelling his irritation.

Ravage examined his claws. “And yet it was. Are you really so shocked?”

This was greeted first with silence, then with an exasperated, “No.” Megatron continued to pace for a micro-cycle before rounding on his lieutenant. “But that isn’t the point. It doesn’t matter if everyone expects a failure to govern properly – it is still _wrong_! This world deserves better!”

“People have a right to decide how they are governed,” Ravage told him with rehearsed sincerity, “and who they are governed by.”

“People have a right to be governed by those who can actually govern,” he growled back.

“If they wanted to change things, they could. That is a matter of pure mathematics. They choose not to.”

With a disgusted snarl, Megatron turned away, treads fidgeting back and forth. He paced once, twice more and stared at the wall. Then he reactivated the viewer, recovering the hologram of the battered green mech and stared at that, scanning and rescanning every buckled panel and twisted limb. After a long while, he spoke again, low and angrily. “Every time I come back, the Cybertron I chose to fight for seems to have slipped further away. One day I think I am going to look up from the battlefield and it will be gone for good.”

Ravage stretched, extending his pistons and servos to their limits. He rose from his seat at the base of the recharge berth and padded across to his commander’s side, leaning his head on one side. The image of the fallen worker was mirrored in his bright golden optics, the scene of hopeless defeat taking on a new lustre in its reflection. “Then perhaps,” Ravage purred, “you are on the wrong battlefield.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Civic Guard Base**

**Tagan**

**Cybertron**

 

“Nothing unusual? Absolutely nothing? No unexpected visitors, no unusual messages? No threats?”

Even via hologram the former head of Konntryn’s household managed to convey extreme discomfort at the questions. His single optic kept narrowing to a point of light, as if he hoped focusing in on Diatrion might make the investigator spontaneously combust. “I have already answered these questions.”

“Then you should have had a chance to rehearse your answers,” Diatrion told him flatly.

The red cyol bristled. “How dare – I resent the implication of that statement. My master – my former master was a legitimate businessmech. He would not tolerate anything illegal –”

“You and I know that is not true.”

“What are you imp –”

"I've seen the records," Diatrion told him, carefully noting the way he twitched at the statement, "Everything looks legitimate but I would bet my axels that it isn't. Some of those companies' profits are a bit too erratic, a bit too _convenient_... This ‘Dirvatech’, for example. Strange how they always seemed to do well when he needed a financial boost in a hurry, don’t you think?”

"I don't –"

"You know exactly what I mean. An Elite like Konntyrn lives or dies on his credibility as a reputable member of high society. I think he died trying to protect his reputation. I think he travelled halfway round the planet to die in a Dead End because he was terrified that someone would expose him as the cheating, hypocritical glitch that he was. And I think you can tell me who was blackmailing him –and what they were blackmailing him _for_ , because it sure as slag wasn't money."

The servant’s image stood stock still, his eye a pin-point in the middle of his face. His hands were trembling slightly. “Feel free to take your time,” Diatrion prompted, gaze unwavering.

“I don’t know!” Optic brightening in panic, the cyol flung his arms wide. “My master was always discrete in his – his business dealings! He may have liked the sound of his own voice but he wasn’t stupid enough to say anything important in front of me!”

“And being discrete yourself, you would have heard nothing anyway.”

“I…”

“And seen nothing.”

“Well –”

“Which is why you’re so shocked by the idea that your master was breaking the law.”

“Of course! I –”

“Not because you’re terrified you’ll be implicated as an accomplice. Or the one who was blackmailing him.”

“I was not! That’s a lie! I would never do such a thing! You can’t possibly believe that I would –” His panicked outburst cut off abruptly and he leaned forward imploringly. “There was a box! I don’t know what was in it! He had it delivered from – somewhere, I don’t know where! He received it himself, didn’t let any of us see what it was! That was odd! He-he never received items in person! Never lifted a finger if he didn’t have to! But that’s all – that’s the only thing I can think of!”

The investigator watched him coolly for half a cycle. “Your memory glitched when you gave your initial statement I suppose?”

Waving aside the babbled protests, Diatrion demanded the exact date and time of the unusual delivery and reeled off the usual statements about the recording of evidence, the potential legal proceedings and the possibility of being called as a witness. He then broke the connection – presumably much to the cyol’s relief – and shunted the new data into the case file.

He smiled grimly. It had paid off. In those erratic transactions, buried deep in the Praxus Banking Network’s oblique terminology and arcane indexing systems, he had found a key to the case. He had been sure of that the moment he had found them. In themselves they told he little he had not worked out for himself, but if he could back his up his suspicions with something solid then so could someone else, opening up the possibility that it had not been Konntyrn’s choice to travel to Tagen at all. If Diatrion rattled enough cages with that idea, the clues to who _had_ made the choice would eventually fall out.

Now he had the beginnings of _why_ it had been made. Not to deliver blackmail money. One look at the accounts, relatively untouched of late, had ruled that out – unless Konntyrn had decided to stand up to a persecutor, but doing that alone and in person just did not fit with the way the mech had operated. To deliver that mysterious box, or at least its contents? Too soon to be certain.

Yet as he began a systematic review of the security footage from Konntyrn’s residence for the date the head-of-house had specified, Diatrion could not supress a surge of excitement. For all the distance that remained ahead of him, he finally had an idea of where the road was leading.

Justice would be done. He was sure of that now. It was simply a matter of time.


	6. Friction

**Underground Arena**

**Iacon Periphery**

**Cybertron**

 

“One shall stand!”

The crowd rose at the announcer’s words, eagerly filling the air with the response. “ONE SHALL FALL!”

They screamed their approval, cheering and banging fists against their armour, their anticipation building like the fury of a storm. The announcer, his part concluded, backed away from the centre of the arena, spreading his arms wide to direct the crowd’s attention to the ground in front of him and the two gaping circular holes that had just appeared in it.

In plumes of smoke and sparks, the gladiators were lifted to the surface, theatrically imprisoned in hissing energy cages. They bellowed, their voices amplified so they could be heard even over the tidal roar of the crowds. Behemoths, they towered over the announcer, their bodies weighed down with layer after layer of armour and mods. Both seemed to have started out as construction mechs. One, the big purple and gold Iaconain, had a crane boom folded over his shoulder and elaborate approximations of hazard markings running up and down his arms. His opponent had a great shovel that curved across his chest, tempered metal bright against black armour coated in swirling cyan patterns. He beat his hands against it, adding the dull thumping to the rising din. A thunder of approval from the Praxians greeted his posturing, matched in kind a moment later by the home audience and their champion’s incensed howl.

On cue, with the audience’s anticipation whipped up to its peak, the cages rippled and broke apart. The announcer transformed and fled and the gladiators flung themselves at one another. It was a simple opening foray, a quick testing strike. The Praxian twisted at the last moment, deftly catching the Iaconain by the forearm and using his own momentum to fling him across the arena. The purple giant slammed into the ground, rolling with the impact and throwing up a cloud of dust. The Praxian supporters hooted appreciatively, but the Iaconian was already back on his feet, charging forward, transforming as he came.

A vehicle only a gun turret away from being a tank hurtled at the black and blue gladiator, crane boom extending like a lance, a wickedly sharp spike sliding out of the end. Responding in kind, the Praxian flipped into bulldozer mode and stood his ground, engine revving hard. The purple tank slammed into him, the spike jabbing viciously into his upper sections. Tracks grinding, he pushed back, resisting the awesome force being exerted against him.

Suddenly the Iaconian shifted and two powerful hands heaved the bulldozer clean off the ground, flipping him and slamming him back down with axel-shattering force. Without so much as a mirco-cycle’s pause, the purple mech jumped high into the air and came crashing down on his opponent’s body like some immense pile-driver. The crowd screamed, the Iaconians drowning out Praxian dismay with thunderous chanting.

“IM-PAC-TOR! IM-PAC-TOR! IM-PAC-TOR!”

Victory, however, was not so quick and not so easy. With much squirming and straining, the black mech managed to free his legs from his vehicle form and kicked out, landing a fearful blow on Impactor’s chest, driving him backwards. In a flash, the Praxian was up and grappling with him, seizing him by the helm and trying to bury him face-first into the arena floor. A new chant echoed out down from the stands, the other end of the amphitheatre rising to cheer.

“RAM-PAGE! RAM-PAGE! RAM-PAGE!”

Impactor, though, was quick to retake the advantage. He abruptly gave into Rampage’s pressure, dropping, throwing him off balance. He released his grip and lashed out with his feet but the Iaconain was too fast. A purple arm looped around his neck and _heaved_. With an unpleasant cracking noise, Rampage’s torso bent over backwards.

He responded by throwing his arms out and mashing his fists into the sides of Impactor’s head.

High up in the stands, watching from near the very top of the amphitheatre, Optrion winced. The crunch of bending metal elicited yet more frantic cheers, as did the grappling that followed, the two gladiators twisting in and out of each other’s grip, pounding and pummelling at every opening. There was a rhythm to the fight, a crowd-pleasing ebb and flow, but no grace, no elegance, nothing that really seemed like art. The gladiators were skilled, but brutally so, their blows intended to cause maximum damage, not end the fight quickly. Already they were scattering fragments of armour – and with a screeching wrench, Rampage pulled Impactor’s shoulder guard free in its entirety.

In retaliation, Impactor ripped his opponent’s right arm off at the elbow.

The crowd went wild, wilder still as the Iaconian champion ground the detached limb into its owner’s face. Optrion looked away from the ring and up at the benches, taking in row after row of whooping, hollering mechs. Frenzy and fuel-lust flashed from face to face, all those little pent up frustrations exploding in time to the kicks and punches. Conflict, even experienced vicariously, was a relief for these people, a way of escaping routine for a while and basking in reflected glory.

Visions of corpse-strewn battlefields flickered before Optrion’s optics and he turned away.

“What’s wrong?” a voice demanded from his left, “We’re winning!” Ratchet peered at him with a scowl, diagnostic sensors flickering on. “You’re not going to collapse halfway through a match, are you? Because if you are, you’ll wake up with your crankshaft up your –”

“I’m fine,” Optrion interrupted quickly, “Don’t worry.”

“What’s he got ta worry about?” Ironhide shouted from Optrion’s right, “We came here ta relax, didn’ we?” He broke off to give an audio-bursting hoot as Impactor hurled Rampage the length of the arena floor.

“You call this relaxing?”

“Sure do! HAHA! TAKE THAT YAH PRAXIAN SLAGGER!”

“You don’t,” Ratchet observed after giving a shout of his own.

“I…no, I don’t.” Optrion frowned. “I’m amazed you do.”

“You’re what? Amazed? This is great! This is the one time I can actually enjoy watching mechs being torn to bits! I don’t have to fix them up afterwards! SMASH HIM IN THE –”

“ _You_ enjoy seeing mechs being torn apart? You’re a medic!”

Ratchet fixed him with a cool blue stare. “Like I said, I don’t have to fix them. Oh for booting up cold,” he groaned as Optrion’s expression dropped from amazed to appalled, “You do realise it’s all for show, don’t you? Please tell me you know it’s for show, commander.” He put a friendly arm around Optrion’s shoulders, or as near as he could given how much taller the other mech was. “Gladiators are stupidly over modded,” he explained in a voice tailored to a particularly slow-witted protoform, “They have redundancies in their redundancies and backups spilling out their exhaust ports. You could put a sword, a spear, a whole fragging axe through one of those guys and they’d still be able to pull it out and ram it down your superstructure. Losing an arm is nothing! Give it back to ‘em for half a cycle and it’ll just reattach, good as new! It’s not real, commander. The damage is, the fuel is – but everyone’s going to be standing in the morning. That’s why it’s a sport. The only thing that gets broke – AND STAY DOWN, Y’ SON OF A GLITCH! – is the other guy’s pride when you GRIND HIS FACE INTO THE FLOOR! No one dies here, commander.”

“Yah want to see that,” Ironhide put in, “yer don’ look somewhere this public. Now can yah quit yer yappin? Ah’m tryin’ tah watch the fight!”

Realising this was neither the time nor the place for a protracted ethical debate, Optrion let it drop. Down below, Impactor leapt into the air again, landing hard on Rampage’s back and driving his already flattened body even deeper into the ground. Iacon called out its approval and Optrion tried very hard not to think of a hundred real battlefields and of everyone who had ever fallen so that Cybertron could stay on its feet.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

In his more whimsical moments, Xaaron wondered if anyone had ever thought of selling tickets. After all, Graviitus and Haacano were at least as entertaining as the average no-holds-barred grudge match, if not more so. And while neither had yet committed any acts of grievous violence against the other, it was surely only a matter of time.

Lately, it seemed that the honoured Emirates of Vos and Tarn were determined to turn every Council meeting into a pitched battle. They had even begun to disturb the usually arbitrary seating arrangement, gathering allied states into opposing camps the better to glare at one another across the circle. Xaaron had the strange feeling that he was sitting between two continental plates that were drawing gradually further and further apart.

It was with some trepidation that he contemplated what would happen when they crashed back together.

“That is an outrageous slur!” Haacano, for once, was the one issuing the thundering outrage.

The object of his fury remained unmoved and extremely smug about it. “Is Tarn disputing the treaties on which its own status as an independent state is founded?” Graviitus asked, folding his arms and leaning back, “I have copies here if you want to check the facts –”

“This is a cynical attempt to take advantage of out-dated accords –”

“Hah! So Tarn admits the treaties defining its territory are outdated!”

“We admit nothing of the sort! Later treaties clearly delineate Tarnian territory as agreed by –”

“Those treaties make no mention of the Kahlian Ridge. Tarn has just been assuming all these mega-cycles that it has the right to build there when it has no. Such. Right.”

“That land is ours in all but name! It has been accepted as ours by every other state in the region. Vos is protesting the point simply to further its own agendas – and,” Haacano accused, jabbing a finger at his opponent, “because that area is ideally positioned for use as a fuel-distribution node.”

Graviitus rallied to the challenge magnificently, rising from his seat and drawing himself to his full height. “Tarn,” he boomed, “is moving to expand outside its legal borders by pretending that its annexing of the Kahlian Ridge has already been accepted by its neighbours!”

“WE ARE BUILDING SUPPLY NODES!” Haacano’s bellow echoed through the throne room. After a moment’s deafening silence, he got a hold on himself and continued, “Tarn is working to improve its energy distribution network to the betterment of every state that relies on us for their continued prosperity. We _need_ to build on Kahlian Ridge and we have every right to do so.”

“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!”

“Enough! Please, enough!” Traachon held up his hands, optics darting around the circle of councillors. “I move – Iacon moves to end this meeting now and reconvene once…and reconvene later.”

“Nova Cronum seconds,” Xaaron intoned quickly, half expecting Vos and Tarn to shout them down just so they could carry on screaming at each other. They did not. But nor did they go graciously from the chamber. It was embarrassing to watch the two camps rush to be the first to sweep imperiously out. A couple of the Emirates even managed to collide, if only fleetingly. They glared, then strode on, their entourages flowing after them. In under a cycle, the room was practically emptied, leaving only Traachon sitting at the circle, Xaaron standing opposite.

Wearily, the Emirate of Iacon got up and turned to bow to the Prime. Sentinel inclined his head, as if being entirely ignored by the rest of the High Council was of no consequence. Xaaron bowed too and followed Traachon from the hall.

They slipped into step quite naturally, their aides falling back and dispersing until the two were walking alone together. For a while, they continued in silence, then Traachon burst out, “Why does he not intervene?!”

“Who?”

“The Prime of course! That is the third time Haacano and Graviitus have dragged us into open squabbling! I swear, I truly believed they were about to physically assault one another this time!”

“An interesting thought,” Xaaron observed, “Haacano naturally favours his tank form, which one would think would put him at a disadvantage against a Vosian, but spacious though it is, I’m not sure the council chamber is really big enough to allow a jet to manoeuvre properly…”

Traachon shot him a look of utter astonishment. “How can you joke about this?”

“Because loud and infuriating as our erstwhile colleagues are, they are not the real problem.”

“Oh…yes…I suppose you are correct.”

The Emirate of Iacon stared gloomily at the ceiling, then added, “If only the Prime would intervene…”

“The Prime will not.” The reply came as a flat statement. “This is a dispute between two cities in one region. It is not a matter of planetary scope or a question of distributing the defence forces. Therefore, it is not his place to interfere.”

“You cannot possibly believe that!”

“No,” Xaaron agreed, “But I suspect that he does.”

Traachon shook his head sadly, not bothering to try to argue the point. “Where is this going to end, Xaaron?”

The golden mech stopped and clasped his hands behind his back. Traachon walked on a few paces before realising and turning back. “Xaaron?”

“I do not know,” the other Emirate answered eventually. He paused, then went on, “The problem is, Vos will never admit or accept that Tarn is not a threat to them, and Tarn will never agree to cease the activities that Vos sees as threatening. I for one cannot say I blame them. Tarn, I mean. But I am unfortunately prejudiced by having experienced first-hand what it was like there before Viilon’s logical revolution.” He held up a hand before Traachon could protest. “No, I do not agree with the way he has gone about things. But while he is no diplomat, he has done that commendable thing of following through on his beliefs and staying true to his principles. Which is, of course, extremely unfortunate. Both governments believe they are in the right and there is not one thing we can say that will convince them otherwise. The best we can hope for is to convince them that…overt action would be too costly.”

“And if we cannot?” Traachon asked hesitantly, clearly fearing the answer that he must surely have worked out for himself.

Again, Xaaron paused before answering. “In whole or in part, Tarn and Vos supply energy to twenty-seven cities,” he said, staring unseeingly at the intricate statuary that decorated the hallway’s walls, “That means around thirty percent of Cybertron’s fuel reserves is passing through their hands at any one time. As individual distribution hubs, only Iacon and Ankmor can match them. They’re also the biggest sources of trade in the Qosho region. Almost half of the traffic passing through the Tagan Heights is bound for, or coming from Vos or Tarn. And they operate or part-fund a considerable number of spacecraft and off-world bases – not just mining camps but scientific units and deep-range outposts. In fact, discounting commercial freighters, I would say each of them has a bigger presence in space than almost anyone else short of the Defence Directorate. If all this…aggravation starts going beyond empty threats and legal quibbling…” Xaaron spread his arms wide. “The disruption to fuel distribution alone would probably be enough to drive Simfur and Altihex into the ground. Tagan wouldn’t be able to cope with the loss of commerce. At least three important deep-space exploration programmes would collapse. And that is without going into the consequences of two of the most heavily armed states on Cybertron engaging in open hostilities, which would be…well…”

“Disastrous,” Traachon completed for him, a tremor in his voice. “The side-effects, the, ah, collateral damage…” A note of resolve replaced the tremor. “Xaaron, we must stop this now. Before it goes any further. We must stop this.”

“We must. How?”

“I…ah…we should…” He trailed off again, before finishing lamely, “I do not know…”

“No my friend,” Xaaron said with a sad smile. He began walking away up the corridor. “Neither do I. But I am trying to work it out as quickly as I can.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Energon Distribution Plant #4**

**Mahlex Industrial Sector**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

Scientifically speaking, destruction is easy. A simple chemical reaction is enough to maim, a basic understanding of physical laws enough to kill. At their heart, even the most complex of destructive devices generally operates on very simple principles.

The black tube sitting beneath transverse pump five was an astonishingly complex device. If by some miracle another culture on a less advanced world had been able to decipher the technology it contained, they would have been catapulted from stone-age to spaceflight in the span of a few orbits of their sun. In a chamber stuffed with sensors and cameras and recorders, it went unnoticed, unseen, unrecorded: to all intents and purposes, it was invisible. In a rudimentary sort of way, it was aware of its invisibility and of the liquid light surging and swirling through the pipes that surrounded it. It watched. It waited. It counted.

At some point in the night, the right parameters were met. The tube split along its length, unfolding a little, certain delicate mechanisms drawing back, letting particular elements combine within its depths. There was a flash, a brilliant shard of star-fire momentarily dashing everything else into insignificance.

The pipes melted in an instant. The fuel met the air, met the fire the tube had released. And ignited.

It is a basic physical law that if a great force is contained within a sealed chamber, then that chamber will not stay sealed for long. On this simple principle the tube’s operation had been designed and it was this simple principle that reduced the pumping station to a cloud of debris. The flames bit into the sky with a victorious roar, leaping from building to building, the blazing energon falling as burning rain, the fire diving into the pipelines and cracking them like dry logs. Another pumping station erupted. Then a third. Within two cycles, half the Mahlex district was ablaze, the shrieking of tortured metal reverberating over and over again until it merged into a weird, frenzied applause.

And, as the city’s very fabric cheered its destruction, the inferno danced higher still.


	7. Sparks in the Tinder Box

**Mahlex Industrial Sector**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

The fires raged throughout the night and well into the morning. Tarn’s emergency teams were stretched to breaking point, even with a dozen Civic Guard rapid response units backing them up. Efforts to contain the blaze were constantly thwarted as its snaking tendrils found new pockets of fuel on which to gorge. Even with the feed lines shut off, there was enough energon left in the district to keep the flames strong for hecta-cycles.

And when the fire-fighters finally won through, there was nothing left worth saving.

The Mahlex Sector had been utterly destroyed. Right down to the sub-strata, all that was left were twisted, blackened ruins, only the skeletal shells of buildings betraying the district’s former regimented structure. Over a hundred mechs had died there. Even with heavy automation, the pumping stations had still needed overseers, technicians, guards – a dozen functions, minor and major, that no dumb machine could be trusted with.

They had stayed at their posts to the end. The end had come too quickly for them to have done anything else. The few bodies that had been recovered were melted beyond any chance of recovery, their superstructures destroyed right down to the micro-technological level.

As soon as the area was cool enough, the investigators moved in. The Civic Guard was quick to establish its authority over and above that of the Tarnian police. The explosion had destroyed an important part of the regional fuel distribution network: the repercussions would extend far beyond Tarn’s borders. Much to the chagrin of his security officials, Governor Viilon accepted this without complaint.

He made no other official statements on the matter. He made no statements on the matter at all. Instead, he simply arrived at the disaster zone with his bodyguards and stood silently, watching a score of white mechs pick over the debris.

If he felt anything at seeing the destruction that had been wrought against the city he had built, his immobile faceplate hid it completely.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

“You’ve heard the good news?”

Vvnet rose parallel to Sarristec’s flight path, dragging his attention from the reams of analyses and predictions he had to process. He dipped his wings in dismissive salute, not missing the feme’s barely concealed hostility but choosing to ignore it. “Some time ago,” he confirmed, more than happy to point out the superior speed of his information gatherers, “It will no doubt be all over the city by now.”

“I’m sure.” Vvnet’s tails twitched. “I’m surprised the Tarnians aren’t trying harder to cover it up.”

“It’s hard to cover up having a major part of your infrastructure melted into slag,” Sarristec pointed out loftily, “Besides, I imagine there are more than a few mechs missing their rations this morning.”

“No doubt you’ve already promised to give them new, better rations at only three times the cost of the missing ones.”

“Of course not.” Sarristec resisted for a moment or two, then added, “We’ll let them miss another fuelling session first.”

Vvnet flicked onto a slightly higher flight path, as if distancing herself from something toxic. Her disdain amused Sarristec somewhat. Some people could not bear to watch another’s successes, even when those successes were to their benefit too. He stretched his fins and angled towards the Fuel Ministry tower. “I suggested to Lord Taynset that I deliver a suitable statement for the mid-day newscasts,” he mentioned offhandedly, “To express our collective sympathy for the Tarnian losses and to offer them any support we can in their hour of need…relieving them of the burden of the contracts they will no longer be able to fulfil, for example. My lord assured me that I would have access to all the major feeds for a full fifteen cycles. He was most impressed with my initiative.”

The trade minister bristled, her thrusters flaring. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” she grated, clearly implying the exact opposite, “Talking is what you do best, after all.”

Sarristec chuckled contentedly, making sure to broadcast his amusement. “If it wasn’t, I’d have to rely on my looks alone and then I would only be half as effective as I am.”

And he banked sharply, sweeping deftly into the tower’s landing hall. He snapped on to his legs and strode purposefully onwards. Bronze secretaries rushed to his side, beaming him reports in turn. Tarn had still not issued any statement. The Civic Guard were not responding to questions. The local markets were in chaos, with several major fuel distributors scrambling to cover their losses. Simfur was sending an envoy straight to Vos to negotiate new agreements.

Sarristec fixed on that for a moment. It was no secret that the Simfur oligarchy was hovering on the brink of self-destruction. Even a short interruption to the populace’s energy supplies might be enough to bring about a complete collapse of the government’s authority, to the point where even their famously heavy-handed enforcers would be unable to stem the tide of public violence. The obliteration of such an ugly slag-heap would be a blessing for anyone with an aesthetic sense but Sarristec supposed he could not allow that to bias the negotiations. After all, with Simfur entirely under Vos’ influence, that would be one more direction in which Tarn would be unable to extend its grip on the region.

A flunky hurried up, darting in as the corridor rearranged itself to give Sarristec a more direct route to his chambers. “The outline for your speech to the newsfeeds, my lord,” the diminutive hexe announced, “Direct from Lord Taynset’s office.”

Sarristec snatched the files from the ether and scanned them quickly. Then relaxed, happy to see that Taynset’s thinking was in accordance with his own. A few small amendments to the statement he had been composing since he first heard about the explosion and he would be set for the broadcast. Barring the necessary polishing and chromo adjustments, naturally. To the rest of the world, he would be the embodiment of Vos and it would be unforgivable if that body were not seen to be absolutely perfect.

Dismissing the hexe, he turned his thoughts inwards and began planning the best posture and intonation for delivering his people’s gravest regrets at Tarn’s loss.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Sealed Briefing Chamber**

**Defence Directorate Headquarters**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

The scanners closed around Megatron, slithering across his frame, exploring him from head to foot. He tensed at the invasion, forcing himself to stay still under the scrutiny. At length, the probes retracted and the doors cycled open, allowing him entry to the conference room. Pausing only long enough to close the protective baffles on his armour, he stepped inside.

The chamber was alive with information, both visual and ethereal. Holograms circled overhead, the whole Qosho region rendered in minute detail. Tarn had prominence and the devastated industrial sector stood out as a gaping hole in the cityscape. Below, various Defence Directorate officers stood clustered in small groups, talking in low voices or on secure channels. At the far end, Supreme Commander Grandus held court, advisors and analysts orbiting his massive form, in the case of one avir, quite literally. Two more Supreme Commanders – Deftwing and Viktoleo – stood off to the side, the bulky flyer muttering darkly to the sleek tank as they poured over a complex web of movement information. And in the centre of the room, arms folded, face grim, was Deca Magnus.

Megatron had never been sure what to make of the Magnus. Physically imposing, the mech was by all accounts a formidable warrior, known to have held his own in the midst of riots and anarchist attacks. And yet he had never committed himself to a true battlefield. Even his stature was a sham. The red and blue armour made him taller even than Megatron but it was not really part of him. It was not unknown for a Magnus to fuse completely with the ceremonial trappings of the rank but Deca had never done so, preferring it seemed to shelter his original, weaker form rather than fully embrace the added strength.

It was hard to truly respect someone who treated might as something to be switched on and off at will.

“Field Commander,” Grandus boomed, gesturing him closer with one mighty pincer, “Good. We can begin.” The assembled soldiers moved quickly into a circle, the Supreme Commanders and the Magnus gathering together, the senior analysts and strategists fanning out before them. Megatron took his place directly opposite Grandus. The holograms reformed within the centre of the room, Tarn rendering afresh, the disaster zone bristling with labels and scan results.

“You all know what happened. I do not intend to go over details you have all already assimilated.” Grandus paused, waving new information on to the display. “What is important now is to minimise the fallout.”

The Magnus stepped forward and waved the epicentre into sharper focus. “The explosion appears to have been caused by a flash-point device located within one of the main pumping halls. Security feeds show it clearly in the moments immediately following detonation. Prior to that, the device did not register at all. The terrorists responsible most likely had inside help, probably from Tarnian security personnel. Investigations are on-going but there are already indications that some of the facility guards cannot be accounted for in the remains.”

“Excuse me,” one of the strategists interrupted, her tail arching, “but has there been some development I’m not aware of? Surely it’s too early to assume that this is the work of terrorists.”

A murmur of agreement ran around the assembly. Though he remained silent, Megatron could not help but note that it was an exceptionally skilled amateur who managed to plant a bomb in one of the most heavily guarded places on the planet without being detected.

Deca did not look happy. “The investigation is on-going,” he repeated slowly, “however, we are inclined to the view that pointing the blame at any…official party would be highly inappropriate. The last thing anyone needs right now is for accusations to start flying. Our working hypothesis therefore is that this was the work of an anarchist or criminal cell intent on causing wide scale destruction in an effort to further extremist agendas.”

So that was how it was to be. Megatron glanced at the hologram He imaged what it must have been like for those caught in the firestorm. For them, at least, the question of who had caused their deaths did not matter. And given that, did it really matter at all who was found guilty? Justice for the dead was nothing compared to the safety of the living.

Noticeably avoiding several accusatory looks from his audience, the Magnus continued, “Any terrorists currently or previously operating in the Qosho region must be located and detained. This will obviously be a large-scale operation and given the chaos that’s going to break out once the fuel shortages kick in, Civic Guard resources are likely to be stretched too thin to handle it properly. This being so, planetary defence forces will be deployed as well.”

Deftwing took over, red optical strip flashing as he spoke. “Two battalions will be dispatched to the Qosho region immediately. They will undertake the capture of any anarchist our intelligence operatives can identify. They will be coordinated by Civic Guard commanders but will be given operational authority during missions. We anticipate that at least some of the cells will be heavily armed and reasonably skilled in combat. It’s possible they’ll be expecting a response, so the emphasis here will be on striking as fast as possible.”

The commander three mechs to the Magnus’ left raised a hand. Megatron recognised him as the leader of one of the Homeworld Battalions. “My troops are being assigned, I take it?”

“Yours and Commander Megatron’s,” Deftwing agreed.

For a moment, there was silence save for the few hurried communications darting between some of the junior officers. Megatron broke it with a question. “What’s the other reason?”

Viktoleo frowned at him. “Your pardon, Field Commander?”

“You’re sending more troops than are usually sent to defend off-world mines from alien aggressors to deal with a few scattered terrorist groups,” Megatron stated flatly, “What’s the other reason we’re being deployed?”

“We cannot deploy peacekeepers before the peace has been threatened,” Grandus thundered, “But having defence forces ready to fulfil that capacity should it be required is not an unreasonable precaution. This cannot be your official function. Not without a Council edict permitting action against sovereign states. But that does not mean we should not prepare for the worst.”

The Magnus stepped forward again. “This situation cannot be allowed to get out of hand,” he insisted, banging a fist into an open palm. “We must do everything and anything we can to ensure that the status quo is restored as quickly as possible. A few hundred Defence Directorate troops should make any aggressor state think twice before attempting to stir up hostilities. And seizing every damned anarchist we can lay our hands on should show very clearly that we will not stand idly by and let honest citizens come to harm.”

Honest citizens. Yes. The honest citizens that each government needed to impress and please if they wanted to stay in power. The honest citizens with the money and influence that decided whether you kept your luxury office and high-grade fuel supplies or got kicked out on to the street and forced to haul cargo and maintain buildings with the common menials. The honest citizens who would sell weapons to any anarchist willing to pay if they thought it would net them a profit or undermine their competitors. Megatron wondered how many ‘honest citizens’ really gave a flying glitch about the death toll, or the status quo that had been disrupted. As long as they got what they wanted – and so many would get what they wanted, with Tarn reeling from the blow – what did it matter if hostilities were stirred up? What would it matter if a dozen anarchists were rounded up and shot?

Ravage’s words about battlefields suddenly came back to him and, for an instant, he imagined being able to move openly into the region and stand as a wall between Vos and Tarn, meeting any violence in kind. Perhaps even going further than that.

He pushed the thought aside. It would not happen, could not happen, so there was no point dwelling on it. Still. Tarn and Vos were military powers in their own right and were hardly likely to be intimidated by forces that did not have the authority to actually stand in their way. In such a situation, covert manoeuvres were a poor substitute for definite action. Indecisiveness, a lack of clear authority, the failure to openly assert your intentions – those were not the weapons by which peace was maintained. Especially not in the face of the deep-rooted suspicion that any misfortune _must_ be caused by those who lurked just over the border.

Megatron had been proto-formed in Tarn. His first alternate form had been scanned from one of the ancient hulks raised on a podium at the heart of the manufacturing district while the walls around him shook and echoed to the sound of heavy munitions. He had lived through the frantic struggle that had marred the last days of the old regime and through the calculated viciousness of Viilon’s Logical Revolution. He had grown up hauling ore with the rest of labour-grades and had shared in their angers and prejudices. He knew all too well that blaming Vosians was the first impulse of any Tarnian who had come to harm. Mega-cycles of technocracy had not changed that. It was unlikely they ever would.

As the briefing moved on to specifics and logistics, Megatron examined the Magnus coolly. Status quo, Deca had said. Did he really know what that meant for those cities? Did he understand? Did Grandus? Did any of them?

And how could they be trusted to make the right decisions if they did not?

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Central Processing Hub**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

Viilon stood alone in the heart of his city, single eye contracted to a pinhole of dazzling yellow light. His thoughts raced from his body. They darted and dived through networks and control systems and information poured into his mind, the day-to-day lives of a hundred thousand citizens intersecting with his consciousness. Individual productivity figures and working patterns locked together one by one, every level of Tarnian society laid bare to its master’s scrutiny.

The loss of Mahlex had distorted the equations. In place of energon flow data were the Civic Guard’s investigation reports, static in the midst of the ever changing computer models. Security recordings unfolded under the findings, comparison algorithms spitting out reams of contradictions and omissions. New models grew from the opposing foundations, probable scenarios playing out side by side, merging and diverging as they evolved.

Viilon saw it all and incorporated it into his worldview, altering and updating his assumptions, reconsidering his options. Old possibilities collapsed and fresh ones took their place. The logic of yesterday gave way to the logic of tomorrow. The calculations shuddered on to new tracks.

His optic spiralled wide. The Civic Guard’s findings were not enough. He could not compute the correct course of action based on such limited and skewed inputs. Too many variables remained too poorly defined. More information was needed. A new perspective was required.

“Connect me to the Kalis municipal communications network,” he ordered, reeling his consciousness back into his body, “Locate and contact: Ident six-five-six-nineteen-tryptic-prima. Reference: commercial investigator, Masz Mech Adep Lyivas Keldon; sub-reference: Nightbeat.”


	8. A Fresh Optic

**Remains of the Mahlex Industrial Sector**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

There was no real reason to visit the blast site personally. For starters, the site itself did not exist anymore. The heart of the explosion had vaporised pretty much everything within the pumping hall, then the pumping hall itself. A few support struts remained, all but unrecognisable as architecture. They might have made good art. Perhaps Tarn could exhibit them. Though that would have required some sort of organised state art-appreciation-and-publicity ministry, which Tarn definitely did not have.

It was possible to recreate the distribution plant in minute detail, mapping visual information over the landscape or projecting a fully-realised holographic reconstruction over the blacked, smelted ruins. Working with the results of the city’s security scanner fetish, everything from ground to low-orbit could be rolled back in time to the instant of detonation. Which was useful. Context was everything. A thousand factors had shaped that moment and it was handy to have them ready to…hand –

Astronomical information. Source that from Tarn’s observatories and the half-dozen others that would have been monitoring the relevant areas of sky. Double check for sunspot activity, electromagnetic storms, passing freighters and so on and so forth. Disturbances. Disruptions in the ether. Anything that might have affected the security systems from afar. Could that have been planned? Of course. Everything could be planned, with enough information. Clearly the bomber(s) had known the layout of the plant. It would not be that much of a stretch to connect that with forecasts and shipping data –

What interference had there been from the sub-levels? Could that have been amplified? Looking down into the yawning pit that had been left after the surface-levels’ obliteration, there would have been a lot of room to plant something that could have subtly altered the sensors’ perception, though that would have meant accessing the sub-strata, which was notoriously difficult without a heavy-duty construction effort, meaning that they would have had to get in via existing routes, which would imply exceptional stealth abilities – already demonstrated by the fact they had got the bomb in at all – and/or access to security protocols that allowed them to bypass detection without any trouble. In which case, why bother with sub-levels and not just come from the front door? Unless both, one to disrupt the sensors, one to deliver the bomb, two agents working in precise coordination –

The point was there was nothing he could learn from visiting personally the scene of the crime that could not be learnt from downloading all the relevant information at some remote location. With all the physical evidence destroyed, the security feeds were the only source of forensic detail. Not an especially promising start, given that those feeds were the ones that had been deceived in the first place and so must be considered inherently untrustworthy, though that in itself was a relevant factor. The schematics. As complete as possible. Learn what had been fooled, that would narrow down the possibilities for what had done the fooling –

Of course, regardless of its practical use for the investigation, it always reassured the victim to see the detective striding confidently through the crime-scene, picking up clues as he went. Illogical, but there it was. Virtual interaction would never be a true substitute for physical presence –

Though, actually, Nightbeat thought as he climbed back up to the mobile observation platform, in this case it was a wasted effort. Governor Viilon did not do illogical. The chances of him being reassured by the usual show were low to non-existent. As were the chances of him needing to be reassured in the first place. Which would make things interesting.

“Good news, Governor. I can safely say that this is the most impressive case of industrial sabotage I have ever seen. And you’re a sure bet for ‘most impressive crater’ at this year’s Urban Landscaping contest.”

The large purple Tarnian with the one optic and zero sense of humour said nothing to this. It was fascinating, really. Cyols, like anyone else, usually had a certain amount of expression, if not in their faces, then in their bodies as a whole. But Viilon might as well have been a statue, or a computer terminal. Completely blank and unmoving. A calm eye in a stormy world. Or an unfeeling scientifically minded tyrant who had deleted most of his personality in an effort to expand his intellect to the next level. One of the two, depending on who was making the observation.

Viilon himself would pick the second option. He cared as much for poetry as he did for humour. An intriguing quirk, pure self-knowledge. If it really was pure. You had to wonder, didn’t you? How deep the scientific worldview really went.

Nightbeat brushed soot from his arms and succeeded mainly in smearing it a little more over his blue armour. Since it was of high unimportance what he looked like when dealing with a mech who saw him merely as a roving analytical subroutine, he did not bother to clean up further. “The bad news, Governor, is that I can also safely say that someone _really_ doesn’t like you.”

“An uninteresting observation,” Viilon told him curtly, “One that adds nothing to my understanding of events.”

“And what is your understanding of events, Governor?” Nightbeat watched carefully for a sign of emotion, any hint that the purple cyol was angry or even irritated by what had been done to his city.

Nothing. Not even an answer. Just that unwavering yellow stare.

“Alright, better question.” Nighbeat tapped his chest plate. “What am I doing here?”

“You are the one who designated this meeting place.”

“Not what I meant. What am I doing here _with you_? Why do you want to hire me, Governor?”

Viilon stared at him. There really were not that many other options when you had one eye and no mobile faceplates. “You are one of the highest rated commercial investigators available.”

“I am. But some of the best investigators on the planet have been over this place. Weren’t they enough?”

For a moment, he thought the purple mech was going to blank him again. But instead, shifting his angular shoulders a little, Viilon replied, “This line of questioning is not relevant. I do not need to explain my reasoning to you.”

“No,” Nightbeat agreed, “You really don’t. It’s pretty obvious you don’t trust the Civic Guard’s findings. How could you? They have a vested interest in reaching a conclusion that doesn’t implicate anyone important and reaching it quickly. Even if they’re right, you couldn’t be sure that they hadn’t left out some vital detail. You can’t accuse them of that, of course, because if you did, your political rivals would accuse you of everything from breaking the Inter-State Accords to questioning the divinity of the Prime. You can’t have your own police double check for the same reason, plus which they’re all biased. I mean, come on – what Tarnian isn’t going to look at this and accuse a Vosian of causing it? You could investigate yourself, but aside from the fact that you’d have as much chance of getting underworld contacts to open up as a Circuit Master would of flying to the moons, you’ve got a city to run. You can’t afford the time. So you hire me. Because I’m not affiliated with anyone. Because I used to be in the Civic Guard, which gives me a bit more credibility. Because unlike the Civic Guard, I’m not afraid to do whatever it takes to close a case. And because I am very, very good at what I do.”

Viilon’s optic contracted. It was probably the single mode of expression he was actually capable of. “A demonstration of your ability is not required.”

“Hah!” Nightbeat laughed, throwing his arms wide. “Governor, _that_ was me proving I’ve been paying attention. If I wanted to demonstrate my ability, I’d just ask if I can see the body now, please.”

“Body?” To give him his credit, there was no hint of guilt in the question. Of course, since there were low frequency hums that displayed more variety than Viilon’s voice, there was no hint of puzzlement or confusion either.

“The body,” Nightbeat repeated, leaning forward slightly, “ _The_ body. Probably a security mech, or a mid-level technician. Someone unimportant with just enough security clearance to be dangerous. Someone who might be bribed or threatened into sharing the daily routine and all those important little details you can’t find in the schematics. In debt? No, probably not, not in this city. Greedy? Almost certainly. And very, very dead. Necessarily. It’s the only way it could have been done. However they fooled your sensors, they needed insider information and a way to get the bomb in. They could have used auto-scouts or decoys or some sort of modified scraplet swarm, but those would be out of the ordinary and therefore set all the alarms off at once. No, the only sure way would be something that was meant to be there, something that didn’t rely on hacking an important control system.

“Of course,” he went on, waving airily at their surroundings, “the most obvious conclusion is that whoever the insider was, they died in the explosion. Except, it’s very hard to find people who’d be willing to blow themselves up in a good cause these days. And that’s assuming they believed in it at all. There are three main categories of terrorist at the moment. The religious fanatics who had decided that ‘all are one’ means ‘when entropy is maximum’ and have decided to lay on an express service to that oh-so final destination. Can’t rule them out but it’s probably safe to assume that your lovely little surveillance state makes it pretty unlikely they’ve got a hidden following among your power-plant workers – and what self-respecting, logical-revolution embracing Tarnian is going to be a Chaos-worshiper anyway? Then there’re those mad, dangerous lunatics who think that everyone on Cybertron is entitled to enough fuel to keep themselves online and out of the Allspark’s final embrace. Well, the mad dangerous, _armed_ lunatics who think that and aren’t afraid to use large bangs to drive their point home. But I have to say, I can’t think of anything less likely to advance their cause than immolating the Qosho fuel-grid, so it’s probably safe to count them out of the running. And finally, of course, we have the anarchists – which means everyone who happens to disagree with any current government and does so at the tops of their voices while waving around a big gun, rather than from a position of power in a city-state that’s running their political system of choice. Everyone from the latter-day Re-unificationists to the actual anarchists.”

Breaking off, Nightbeat grinned widely. “There are even people who think that an autocratic military tyranny maintaining a constant watch on its citizens for any sign of deviancy or anti-state sentiments is _unethical_. I mean, can you imagine?”

Viilon’s optic contracted again. He said nothing but still: there was just the hint that his patience might be wearing a little bit thin.

Taking that as a victory, Nightbeat resumed his lecture, pacing up and down the spacious inspection platform and tapping his fingertips together to emphasise his points. “The bottom line is, you would never allow extremists, proven or suspected, to work in your industrial complexes, and it seems unlikely that someone willing to blow themselves up for their cause would be able to hide their politics from your security sweeps. More importantly, you obviously doubt the Civic Guard’s claims that this was caused by fanatics. You must have some reason for that. At the very least, you must be unsatisfied with their explanations. The most _logical_ conclusion from both is that someone who was not caught in the blast itself can be connected with it, if only by the suspicious coincidence that they have turned up dead afterwards. And whoever that inside agent was, they _will_ be dead. Keeping them alive would be too dangerous for whoever was really behind this – who clearly want to remain anonymous since they haven’t jumped up and claimed this as a victory for ‘[insert cause here]’, which is surely what a fanatical group trying to make a point would do.”

He stopped and spun to face Viilon. “Which brings me back to my original question: can I see the body now, please, Governor?”

The purple cyol looked down at him. The Tarnian was much taller and considerably boarder, a consequence both of where he had been brought online and the military grade armour that had been added later. Doubtless the effect was calculated to be intimidating to those in his presence and as a reminder of his people’s physical might, both on a patriotic and a political level. That and reducing the chance of being shot dead. Nightbeat met his gaze steadily. If the Governor wanted someone to find out who was behind the destruction of the Mahlex district, he was unlikely to rip their head off with his bare hands.

“I will make arrangements for you to view the remains of Secondary Technician 3728: Vaseeltron on our return to the central district,” Viilon stated, signalling the platform to lift off. That was it. No dissembling, no irritation, nothing about the demonstration of the investigator’s art. Fine. That was actually a refreshing change. It was always easier to do the job when it was nearly impossible to offend your employer.

Nightbeat lowed himself into car mode and settled on to his wheels, content to let the journey pass in silence. His mind was already racing onwards, trying to second-guess what he would find in whichever of Viilon’s dungeons the late-lamented Vaseeltron’s mortal remains had been stowed. He could see the edges of the patterns before him, tantalising connections springing up wherever he looked. The familiar surge of excitement was taking hold.

Somewhere out there, the truth was lurking, a solution scuttling across the face of the planet, ready and waiting to be tracked down.

The hunt was on.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Vosian State Newsfeed**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _The Conclave of Vos is united in our horror at this atrocity. We are appalled at the loss of life and the destruction that has been wrought upon our neighbours. For all the differences we have with Tarn, let it never be said that the people of Vos would ever condone the actions of fanatics and anarchists. Whatever genuine grievances they may have had, there can be no justification for this attack. In striking against Tarn in this reprehensible manner, they have struck not just against one city – they have struck against all of us and denied their cause any sympathy that we might have offered it.”_

_Sarristec paused, seemingly overwhelmed by emotion. Composing himself, he drew himself up anew and gestured emphatically with a fist. “Rest assured that the full might of the Vosian Justice Ministry stands alongside the Civic Guard and the Defence Directorate in their efforts to track down the perpetrators. We shall not stand idly by and allow a few unbalanced individuals to disrupt this region at will. The Conclave is committed to fulfilling our obligations under the Inter-State Accords to ensure peace and stability for all free Cybertronians. And I know that, as ever, the people of Vos are with us.”_

_He shifted his stance, opening his hands and leaning imperceptibly forwards. “To those many thousands of honest, hard-working people who are suffering because of this tragedy, I say this: our commitment to the Qosho Region goes beyond aiding the search for justice. We are aware that the destruction of the Mahlex distribution centre has had repercussions far beyond Tarn’s borders. Vital supplies are no longer reaching many of those states presently reliant on Tarnian fuel. With no immediate resolution to this crisis in sight, we offer our own fuel distribution services to any city that needs them. We are already in negotiation with the Simfur government to provide emergency relief: we are willing to enter into talks with any other affected state.”_

_Spreading his wings wide, he raised his fist again. “We shall not surrender to those who threaten our way of life. We shall not give in to those who have abandoned the rule of law. If our intervention marks the difference between restored stability and decay into chaos, then we will not –_ cannot _– stand aside and do nothing. If Tarn can no longer provide for you, we shall step into the breach. If you are empty, we shall offer you fuel. If you are in need, we. Will. Help. You.”_

_The Vosian insignia orbiting Sarristec’s image swelled, moving into prominence. His fist clashed against his chest in the ancient symbol of military fraternity. “Do not let those who cower behind acts of terror break us apart. Vos stands with you this day. Vos stands with you for as long as you need our support. This we swear! Till all are one!”_


	9. Fire-fighting

**Underground Bunker**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

The rumbler charge shattered the bunker’s roof in two-point-oh-four micro-cycles. The shock-wave drove the resulting dust down into the chamber below, filling it with a thick metallic fog that smothered everything in an instant. Three anarchists gave themselves away at once by crying out and were tagged with disruptor claws. They collapsed in agony, twisting and morphing uncontrollably as the claws overrode their primary transformation relays.

Optrion’s combat subroutines were picking out fresh targets before his feet touched the floor, the variation of the fog's the content and density and the hum of burning energon providing more than enough data to map the room and everyone in it. Already thrown by the explosion and with their less sophisticated sensory systems struggling to adjust to the abrupt environmental shift, the terrorists were overwhelmed in moments. Those who managed to fire back did so with little accuracy and only scored hits by virtue of the confined space, and even then, military grade armour was more than a match for their limited arsenal.

The egress point secure, Optrion led the way deeper into the base, pausing at the first junction to allow Ironhide to scout ahead. A rocket burst against the red mech’s reinforced shoulders, shrapnel ricocheting across the passageway. While his lieutenant’s vision cleared, Optrion darted into the open and fired twice past his knee. The defender gave a short, sharp yell as the unexpected angle allowed the suppressor rounds to enter his body through his hip joint. A blaze of electricity and he crashed to the ground, smouldering and unconscious.

The anarchists’ staging post must have been created using malfunctioning shaper packages, or else they had deliberately avoided neat geometric tunnels. The passageways weaved haphazardly and awkwardly, with too many twists and blind-alleys for vehicular travel to be useful. The squad sent sensor drones whizzing ahead but the actual fighting was stop-and-start, a long sequence of ducking round and quick bursts of fire as they steadily rooted anarchists, one at a time from their hiding places. Larger chambers were filled with smoke and swept with suppressor fire, the exact make-up of the smog constantly altered to prevent the enemy from adapting to it.

Every so often, the anarchists would bring out heavier weapons, or grenades, perhaps hoping that a larger blast radius would make up for their impaired accuracy. At one point, they even detonated ramshackle bombs in the roof, trying no doubt to block the squad’s advance. Trailbreaker and Beachhead overlapped their forcefields, holding the walls up with a tunnel of silver light while two more troopers ran forward and deployed bracer staves, yellow rods that expanded and forked, forming a toughened framework to keep the passageway open.

With troops closing on them from multiple entry points, the remaining terrorists were driven to the centre of the complex, away from the easy escape routes. Warnings flashed across Optrion’s consciousness as energy emissions from that rapidly diminishing ‘safe’ region spiked drastically. A bass tone set the floor vibrating – the sound of some drastic counter-measure being readied.

Optrion signalled four of his heavy troopers to accelerate past the scouts and charge the remaining barriers. He took the fifth access route himself, keeping up a steady stream of fire against anyone and anything that stood in way. With Ironhide hot on his heels, he burst into an irregularly shaped room filled with packing containers and frightened anarchists. Several floor panels had been hastily thrown aside, no doubt giving access to a last-ditch escape tunnel.

The sound was coming from a large cylinder that stood off to one side, an ugly grey device pulsing with angry red light. Optrion’s weapons catalogues identified it immediately as a mark seven tri-phasic mining charge, designed to blast mountains into conveniently sized pebbles for swift processing. He shot a liquid-core slug straight through the control node and the lights snapped off, safeties kicking in even before the anti-conductive gel had finished hardening inside the casing.

In the time it took the mining charge to shut down, Geeniex, Thunderfoot, Icepick and Flak had wiped out the anarchists with a hail of low-yield fire. The last of them tumbled into the escape tunnel with a despairing scream. Diving past Optrion, Ironhide leapt after the falling mech, vanishing completely from view. The sharp retort of gunfire echoed up, a mix of controlled shots and wild firing, then silence.

“All cleah!”

Even though he knew the likelihood of Ironhide coming out worse in the engagement was low, Optrion still felt relieved at hearing his voice. He signalled an acknowledgement then took stock of the situation. The base had been secured, with twenty three mechs subdued and accounted for. No fatalities, seven stasis-locks, sixteen forced shut-downs. No casualties on the squad either, with only minor injuries. The captured material included large stockpile of small and medium arms, plus a few large explosive devices, several illegal modification units and a handful of auto-scouts in various stages of retrofitting. The communications experts were already hacking into the anarchists’ data recorders – which had been automatically scrambled but might still contain retrievable data – and into the anarchists themselves, who had had no time to blast their own processors to gibberish.

Across the Qosho region, three dozen similar raids were meeting with similar success. A steady stream of information over the command net showed terrorists and fanatics falling like hexnuts before a combination of soldiers and Civic Guard special operations teams. So far, things had gone remarkably well. There were two pitched fire fights in progress, however, one near Tagan, another in the vicinity of Simfur, where Megatron himself was leading the assault on a suspected Chaos-worshiper cult.

“This one’s got gladiator markings,” Icepick called out, heaving a stocky grey cyol from away from one of the munitions crates. “Kalis Red, ten seasons ago.”

“An’ this one’s got ah inbuilt energo-sword,” Flak called back, flipping another downed mech onto his back. The soldier knelt down and shook the offending arm. “Looks pretty badly made though.”

“There’s more crates an’ stuff down there,” Ironhide reported, heaving himself out of the escape tunnel, “All loaded on a truck ready ta send off ta the west. Tunnel curves, but not by much.”

“Get a tracer down there,” Optrion ordered. He turned to the troopers examining the weapons cache, intending to ask for an update on their progress. Before he could, the battalion command channel screamed for his attention.

“ _Lieutenant Commander Optrion.”_ Ravage’s voice cut in without preamble, security codes weaving around the communication. _“Rendezvous with squads three and seven and proceed immediately to Commander Megatron’s location.”_

“ _We are still processing targets two and seven,”_ Optrion protested, even as he relayed the order to his troops.

“ _Leave the rest for the White and Blues. You're needed here. We have encountered some…unexpected resistance.”_

An image flashed across the network, presumably recorded from whatever vantage point Ravage was concealed in. Megatron’s forces were pouring fire into a large crater that had been blasted into one of Simfur’s ground expressways. A ragtag bunch of heavily armoured mechs and quads were swarming out of the crater, wielding everything from plasma rifles to a mining laser. At first, Optrion could not see why Megatron should need to call for assistance.

Then something massive surged out of the smoke and seized one of the troopers in its jaws.

Black and orange, with two great arms and a vicious streamlined head, it raced forward on four huge spiked wheels, moving with incredible speed for something that looked so unwieldy.

“ _Looks like some sort of over-modding experiment gone wrong,”_ Ravage commented dryly, _“Or perhaps this is gone right, if you’re a chaos-worshipper.”_ Biting the trooper in its mouth clean through, the monster knocked three more aside with frenzied blows and roared in animalistic fury, energy bolts splashing off its scaled armour like so much water. _“Either way, we are having some difficulty finding the off-switch.”_

His troops falling in behind him, Optrion headed for the exit. “We’re on our way.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Civic Guard Base**

**Tagan**

**Cybertron**

 

There was a large chunk of building sticking out of Diatrion’s arm. He regarded it dispassionately, pondering the force with which the shard of metal must have been thrown to lodge quite so deeply in his armour. The sheer fury necessary to rip a girder apart and then fling the bits hard enough that they stuck fast in the hapless glitches trying to calm everything down was impressive, even granting that riots were traditionally full of very angry people. If nothing else, it spoke volumes about the populace’s satisfaction at being told that their fuel rations were being cut yet again.

Having finally reattached Talainat’s lower leg – a process complicated by the need to drain a copious amount of liquid from it, the result of a particularly high-spirited rioter trying to fling the limb to the other side of the harbour – the medic bustled over to hum and ah over Diatrion’s arm. After what seemed like an unnecessary amount of prodding and poking, she extended her micro-fingers, got a tight grip on the shard and pulled hard. Diatrion winced in pain as the metal scraped free.

The medic tossed it into a bowl, then briefly jabbed a matter agitator into the wound. “You’ll do,” she told him curtly, and moved on to the next injured guardsmech.

“Thank you,” he called after her, but she was already working to replace a shredded tyre.

He got up and walked to the door, surveying the damage as he went. Maybe thirty guardsmechs with minor injuries, and blessedly, minor injuries only. By some minor miracle, the crowds had been dispersed without a shot being fired, suppressor or otherwise. No one was happy about the property damage, true, but broken buildings were easy to fix. Broken people – not so much.

Speaking of which, he had information to cross-reference.

With riots and the threat of more, not to mention a full-scale anti-terrorist operation going on around them, Diatrion had become increasingly side-tracked from the Konntryn case. There were still investigators working on it, of course, and the amount of information he had to work with was steadily increasingly, but he personally had not been able to turn his full attention to it for a couple of days. The worst thing was that he could not argue with being put on riot duty. His line was known for their inherent strength and durability and he had scored highly in the combat tests at the Academy. It made sense. It was logical. And it was incredibly frustrating. Konntryn’s murder was _his_ case. Not seeing it through to the end or, worse, permitting it to go unsolved, whatever the extenuating circumstances, would be _his_ failure.

This thought followed him through the corridors. He made himself to go to the energon dispensary, hating the added distraction but knowing full well that he would be no good to anyone if he did not maintain his fuel levels. The size of the ration gave him pause and he felt momentarily guilty about taking the optimum amount having recently been face to face with those forced to exist on far less. He forced his mind quickly back to the case. Worrying about things beyond his control was a waste of precious time and even more precious energy.

He found the door to his office sealed, as he had left it, and beamed the appropriate codes to unlock it. The door promptly slid aside and he automatically stepped inside, signalling the lights. It was only after he had done so that he registered that the lights were already on and that there was a junior investigator standing on the communication-dais, flicking through his files.

Diatrion’s first reaction was to ask what it was the other mech was looking for. After all, he had been unavailable for some time and was not about to discipline someone who was doing their best to carry on cases in his absence. Then his processors caught up with his sensors and he registered both the oddity of the seal being put back on the door and the investigator’s energy signature.

“What are you doing here?”

The junior investigator spun around, grinned and spread his arms. “Waiting for you!” He brushed lightly at his chest plate. “Sorry about the false-colours. I needed to be sure I didn't get shot by accident.” His livery rippled and shifted, white to blue, blue to yellow, the Civic Guard insignias vanishing completely.

“I wouldn’t have shot you whatever you looked like,” Diatrion stated flatly.

“No, but then you’re a ‘cautious, reliable officer who rarely jumps into a situation before he has taken a good look at it first.’ Or that's what your files say. Incidentally, you're really overdue a raise, especially if you keep pulling all those double shifts… _what am I doing_. Not who. You know who I am.”

Diatrion pulled up the information that had been flagged the moment he had recorded the other mech’s signature. “Maszadep, formerly Junior Investigator with the Uraya division. Now a commercial investigator operating out of Kalis.”

“I prefer Nightbeat, and you left out the part about me being one of the highest rated mechs in my profession.”

“I’m not in the habit of flattering people who fabricate evidence.”

“I did _not_ fabricate it!” Nightbeat sounded genuinely offended. “I extrapolated from the _existing_ evidence and reconstructed the evidence that had been _destroyed_.”

“Totally exceeding the statutory limits on reconstructive procedures.” Diatrion placed himself calmly between Nightbeat and the door.

“Some would argue that those limits are unnecessarily stringent and are, in fact, intended to benefit those who don’t like the idea of functional laws.”

“I am not going to start debating legal failings with a civilian,” Diatrion stated flatly, “I’ll ask you again: what are you doing here?”

Nightbeat leant his head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly. “I want to talk to you about the late, possibly lamented Konntryn.”

“There is absolutely no reason I should discuss that with you.”

The blue mech looked imploring. “I’m a fellow seeker of truth, a fellow sentinel against injustice!”

“You resigned.”

“Before they could throw me out! Wait –” He broke off, apparently in confusion. “Sorry, that usually happens the other way round. Anyway, the reason is that I can help. Obviously. I mean, the full force of the Magnus’ Office at your back and how far have you got? He was in the Dead End to deliver _something_ that _may_ have come from _one_ of his companies to _someone_ who slagged him to stop anyone learning what the _something_ was. Legal history in the making.”

Diatrion took a step forward. He was much taller than Nightbeat and nearly twice as broad. He knew from the records that the commercial investigator was a competent hand-to-hand fighter but nothing spectacular. It would be a simple matter to subdue him and drag him to the cells – after charging him with illicit entry and hacking into official systems –

“Ok, ok!” Nightbeat waved his hands frantically. “You wouldn’t believe I’m acting for Konntryn’s clan, would you? No. Of course not. They don’t really care he’s dead, they just want to know what they can get out of it – oh, and you can stop looking at me like that, I am actually officially signed in at the front desk as a visitor. They gave me a tag and everything – see? I just got bored and ‘lost’ and you really should instigate better security around here. I mean, I didn’t actually realise it was locked until I was inside –”

Diatrion took another step forward.

“I’m working for Governor Viilon!” Nightbeat stopped, making sure the guardsmech wasn’t going to advance any further before continuing. “He wants me to find out who blew up his processing plant.”

“What has that got to do with my case?” Diatrion demanded, compiling at least seven possible answers to his own question, none of which were supported by any evidence in his possession.

“You’ll like this.” Rebooting the holo-display, Nightbeat brought up the scans of Konntryn’s corpse. “You see, turns out there’s one single solitary technician who _wasn’t_ blown to Primus in the Mahlex explosion when he really should have been. Once I’d got everything I could from the corpse – he’s dead, by the way – I started running some comparisons, looking to see if I could match the cause with anything local. Eventually your little mystery came up and, well…”

He projected another hologram, one not from the case file. A second body materialised beside Konntryn, a figure of medium size and neutral colours who would have been completely unremarkable if they hadn’t been suffering from enough impact damage to destroy almost every identifying feature.

Side by side, the similarities between the corpses were painfully obvious.

“Viilon’s people do excellent autopsies,” Nightbeat explained, flicking readouts into the air, “And luckily, so do yours. I ran the comparison. The patterns are as identical as anything that’s caused by prolonged blunt trauma could ever hope to be.”

With a slow, measured tread, Diatrion walked around the holograms, taking note of every last detail. He too ran the comparison of the autopsy reports, Nightbeat watching impatiently. He had not been wrong. The resemblance was not just superficial. The size and shape of the wounds, the obliteration of identifying marks, the complete destruction of consciousness – they all indicated a common cause. And the security seals of the Tarnian Police were genuine, which suggested the evidence had not simply been ‘extrapolated’ from Glitter’s reports.

Impatience bubbling over, Nightbeat began to pace and gesticulate. “I cross-checked reports from across the region, murders, assault, solved or unsolved. This case stood out from all the rest – and the circumstances! I wasn’t sure until I read your files – _stop looking at me like that and make your passwords harder to guess_ – look, I think we both had a good idea of what that _something_ Konntryn was killed over might have been, and poor old Vaseeltron was _definitely_ killed because he knew too much – and since they were both killed by the same person, that means –”

“Stop.”

Nightbeat did so, so fast he might as well have run head-first into the hand Diatrion held up. “Firstly,” the guardsmech told him, “any link between this case and the destruction of the Mahlex District is circumstantial at best. Just because you are convinced there is one does not automatically mean it exists. Secondly,” he continued over Nightbeat’s protests, “you are not a fellow officer, you are a private individual conducting an investigation for profit. I am under no obligation to help you. In fact, the regulations forbid it.”

“I know the regu –”

“And thirdly, the only thing I am under an obligation to do is to arrest you for breaking into my office and hacking into my files.”

For an instant, he thought Nightbeat was going to attack him. The blue mech tensed and raised his arms angrily, his faceplates shifting with frustration and disbelief. Then he spread his fingers and jabbed them at Diatrion. “One hundred and fifty seven innocent people died in that explosion. Vaseeltron sold them out but he probably didn’t really know what he was doing. The Pit knows how many others whoever’s behind this had to kill to make themselves safe – and Primus! Let’s even say that Konntryn didn’t deserve to be beaten into scrap! Someone out there killed these people and they are getting away with it! No, you stop, don’t say anything, hear me out. It is _not_ circumstantial. I _know_ there is a connection. I’ve run the numbers, checked the facts, calculated the probabilities. _It fits_. And even if it didn’t, Vaseeltron and Konntryn would still have been killed by the same person. This is _part of your case_. I’ve seen your profile, Dia Mech Trion Novus Zar. You are a good officer, you care about solving your cases and seeing that justice is done. You cannot ignore this any more than I could. But you _won’t solve this without my help_. Oh, maybe you’d get half the answers. But you’re a White n’ Blue. Whoever murdered these mechs was not someone in Konntryn’s social world. They won’t have an account with the Praxus Banking Network. They will not be refined and they will not try to dodge you by playing by the rules. They will run, they will stay silent or they will rip you in half. Most likely, you would never get near them. _I can_. I can find them, I can get close to them, _I can find out why these people are dead_.”

Crossing his arms, Diatrion looked Nightbeat straight in the optics. “I will not break the law to enforce it.”

“Then don’t,” Nightbeat replied, tone light again, “Just don’t lock me up for looking in your files. I will tell you everything I discover. That’s a promise. I will give you Konntryn’s murderer.”

“Don’t you mean, give them to Viilon?”

“My job is find out who was behind the attack on Tarn. No one’s said anything about what happens to them afterwards. Well, Investigator? Do we have an agreement?”

To let him go free would be a violation of the laws Diatrion had sworn to uphold with his life. That was simple fact. The Civic Guard did not collaborate with amateurs, it did not accept evidence through third parties and it most certainly did not allow its case files to be distributed to commercial investigators who had actively broken security and committed multiple criminal acts. It could not have been more clear cut. There should have been no ‘other hand’.

But of course there was.

The riots, obstructive bureaucracy, leads growing ever colder – and he could not ignore what he had just been shown, could he? He could not use it either, not without some extremely uncomfortable conversations with the Tarnian police, but that wasn’t the point. ‘Seeing that justice is done.’ Surely _that_ the point. Did the methods matter?

Yes. They did. They always did.

“No.” Diatrion shook his head firmly. “No agreement.”

Nightbeat’s face fell and his arms dropped limply to his sides. He backed away as Diatrion walked over and stepped on to the dais, dismissing the holograms with a wave. Puzzlement quickly overtook his expression, however, as the guardsmech made no move to grab him.

And then he grinned.

“Can I help you?” Diatrion asked flatly.

“No…thank you, no.” Nightbeat shrugged expansively and went to the door. “Wrong room. I’ll find my own way out.” He paused on the threshold, grin showing again. “Investigator? You won’t regret this.”

But of course, he already did.


	10. Public Image

**Main Conference Room**

**The Palace of Law**

**Vos  
Cybertron**

 

“Come now, surely it is but a small consideration given the benefits that Tagan will see?” Sarristec put on his most winning smile. “Benefits your citizens surely deserve.”

And more importantly, he added silently, benefits your citizens are getting ready to rip from your rusting carcases, you bunch of slack-witted cretins. And if you’ve looked across at Simfur lately, you’ll know where that leads. Clearly thinking similar thoughts, the Tagan ambassador shifted uncomfortably on his perch and flicked at the air with crimson wings. “Small considerations have a habit of leading to large concessions, Lord Sarristec.” The avir angled his head sharply to the left. “We appreciate that your proposed conditions are relatively generous. We are not, however, willing to prejudice our city’s future security for the sake of the Conclave’s ambitions.”

Sarristec lent back, expression cooling. “I’m sure your people will understand your reluctance to commit yourselves to a course of action you deem imprudent. I feel it only fair to warn you, however,” he went on before the ambassador had a chance to respond, “that while we would like to extend our help to all those suffering from the loss of Tarnian-sourced fuel supplies, we realise that this is not a realistic goal. At some point, we will simply be unable to assist any more cities. Given the vital role that Tagan plays in this region’s economic life, we would hate for it to fall the wrong side of that point.”

“Lord Sarristec…” The ambassador drew his wings about him and looked down his beak. “You appear to be under the mistaken impression that Vos is the only state willing and able to replace our energy needs until Tarn is able to restore its export facilities. We have already received several offers, most of which do not involve any ‘considerations’, small or large.”

Sarristec could have laughed in his face. “Ah yes,” he said, with a smaller, more knowing smile, “but Vos is the only state in a position to supply you immediately. The existing supply network between our two cities can handle the increased load with no difficulty. Can the same be said of the pipelines from Ankmor?”

To which the answer was, no, it could not. Which the Tagan government knew all too well. Which was why they had come to Vos first.

The ambassador fluttered, trying desperately to cover his embarrassment at having his bluff called. “Perhaps we might take a short recess, so that I might consult with my superiors?”

“Of course, ambassador.” Sarristec rose from his seat. “Please take as long as you wish. We have several other representatives we need to meet with in any case.” He savoured the panic that crossed the ambassador’s face as he showed him remorselessly to the door.

“Ember and Pit,” Vvnet muttered once the avir was gone, speaking for the first time since the conference had begun, “Why don’t you just out-right threaten him and be done with it?”

“Come now, you of all people should know that’s not how the game is played,” Sarristec admonished her, returning to his seat.

“You enjoy it too much,” she retorted bluntly.

“ _I’m_ not the one who mismanaged Tagan’s menial classes. They buy fuel from three different providers, handle enough freight that they have shannix to spare and they _still_ manage to get themselves into this situation? Give me one reason why I shouldn’t enjoy this.”

Vvnet’s armour flared slightly, blue fins parting to show more of the green beneath. “I said, you enjoy it _too much_. We need to look like we’re being reasonable about this, the heroes stepping in to save our neighbours from their mistaken faith in Tarn. _You_ are coming damn close to making us look insufferably smug.”

“My dear Lord Vvnet…” Sarristec rested his chin on folded hands. “Is this envy?”

She looked at him in utter revulsion. “What in Primus’ name are you talking about?”

“Oh, it’s all so obvious,” he said, smirking, “You spend stellar-cycles struggling along at the Commerce Ministry, making mundane deal after mundane deal with petty states not worthy to be Vos’ _building materials_ , let alone its allies – and then someone with actual vision and charisma comes along and starts making all the important moves that you never could. I can understand why you might find that a little difficult to accept…”

“You poisonous little –” Vvnet hissed and half-rose, her wings snapping up and out.

“Temper, temper,” Sarristec admonished, “Let’s not fight when we have delicate negotiations to conduct. Besides, there’s no point getting angry.” He leant forward, pressing his fingertips together. “I have Lord Taynset’s confidence. He and I are in accord on these issues. If I were you, I’d accept that and move on. You’ll be much happier once you do.”

Vvnet glared murderously – and then, abruptly and without warning, laughed. “Oh…you have Lord Taynset’s confidence, do you? Is that what you think? Hah!”

Perplexed and angered by her reaction, Sarristec narrowed his optics. “What do you mean by _that_?”

“Oh…oh nothing,” she replied, laughter fading away, “Nothing little shooting star, nothing at all.” She straightened. “I need some energon. Beam me when our friend from Tagan has finished his panic attack.”

“But –”

She swept out, completely ignoring him. Sarristec glowered after her, fuming with the certainty that he had just been insulted, and completely at a loss to explain how.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Planetary News Feed**

**Qosho Region Local**

**Cybertron**

 

“… _which brings the total number of robberies to twenty-seven. The Civic Guard has warned all merchants to take extra care when travelling outside city boundaries and to join protected convoys wherever possible. Unofficial sources have confirmed that the on-going investigations are increasingly focusing on suspected members of the Black Shadow, particularly those in a position to access travel plans logged with border control offices._

“ _Planetary defence forces have finally neutralised the feral trac that rampaged through the Simfur residential districts yesterday. The trac, believed to be the result of illegal hybridisation and modification experiments, was cornered within the North Axial Interchange having previously escaped from the troops sent to capture it and the cultists responsible for its creation. We understand that it was Field Commander Megatron – former athlete and hero of the Kolidahl, Verinan and Tominidiac campaigns – who subdued the monster with a courageous single-handed attack at close range. The trac is now being taken for analysis at the Civic Guard containment facility on the Primon Flats._

“ _The capture of the Simfur cultists was only the final act in a Qosho-wide operation to root out and detain those responsible for the destruction of the Mahlex Industrial District in Tarn. At this time, neither the Defence Directorate nor the Civic Guard has confirmed whether the perpetrators have been found; however it is known that a significant number of dissidents have been arrested._

“ _We have just received this urgent newsflash: there has been a series of large explosions in the Simfur governmental districts. The blasts are believed to have originated in the sub-levels beneath or adjacent to several key buildings. Reports are coming in of riots breaking out across the city and of labourers clashing with security forces outside a number of energon distribution nodes. Power to many municipal systems has been cut and the main transport hub is in lock-down._

“ _So far, the Simfur government has issued no comment. In fact it has just been confirmed that several key government officials have been sighted fleeing toward neighbouring Prodium. However, at least one of the escaping transports has been brought down by rioters and its fate is, at present, unknown._

“ _The local Civic Guard divisions are visible on the streets, attempting, it seems, to bring the situation back under control. Given the rapidly escalating violence, however, it does not appear that they will be able to do so. Emirate Aetalon has petitioned the High Council and the Defence Directorate for a direct intervention – there is no news yet on how this request is being received, but given the Council’s noted reluctance to use planetary defence forces at the state level –”_

_#External Visual Override: Authorisation Code – Raindance – cron-typtic-prima#_

“ _Sorry to break in so abruptly everyone, but as you can see there has just been a startling development on the ground here in Simfur. Those aircraft you can see approaching the city-centre are heavy troop transports. And – yes, there! Those markings are the insignia of the Tarnian military elite, which haven’t been seen outside their borders since the Telonix Conflicts in the stellar-cycles immediately following the Logical Revolution. At first, everyone assumed they were here to aid the Simfur administration however – woah!_

“ _Sorry about that viewers, needed to move to safe flight path there. As you can see, rather than defending the current administration, the Tarnians actually seem to be firing on the Simfur security forces in defence of the rioters. This is an unprecedented development and will surely raise questions at the highest level – Primus jacked!_

_#Main Feed Reinitiated#_

“ _Apologies for the break in transmission. We are working to re-establish our connection with the cameras in the vicinity. We will continue to broadcast reports from Simfur for as long as we are able, and our reporters in Iacon are currently attempting to get some indication of how the High Council is responding to the crisis._

“ _Stay on this feed for all the latest developments.”_

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Rented Residential Pod**

**Tagan**

**Cybertron**

 

Once you connected Konntryn’s death to the destruction of the Mahlex district, everything began to make sense.

Diatrion’s casework was thorough, precise and ultimately limited by the fact that he was a member of the Civic Guard. Take the mysterious package Konntryn had received immediately prior to his final, fatal journey. Aside from a rough upper limit on its size, Diatrion had been completely unable to work out just what had been delivered. None of the household servants seemed to know and the courier had vanished completely and utterly in the way that only those facing an imminent visit by the White n’ Blues could manage. Consequently, he had focused on the front companies, trying to find incriminating evidence someone might have been able to use as leverage, rather than trying to guess from which, if any, of the functional businesses the delivery might have come. And even if he had followed that line of investigation, it was a fairly safe bet that he would have been deflected by any number of privacy and commercial security laws designed to safeguard the private sector from the prying eyes of tax inspectors, ethical review committees, and people conducting murder investigations.

But if Konntryn had been murdered by the same person who killed Vaseeltron, and Vaseeltron had been killed because of his connection to the Mahlex bombing, then it was likely Konntryn was dead for the same reason. If Konntryn was connected to the Mahlex bombing, the mysterious package was almost certainly connected to it as well. If the package had to be brought all the way from Praxus to Tagan, by soon-to-be-smashed hand, then it must have been a pretty important part of the plan. And if you were willing and able to hack into fifteen high technology research firms’ central computers, you would find that one of the more minor companies in Konntryn’s portfolio was in the process of developing sensor baffles for military use. Which was _exactly_ what you would need to plant a bomb in the most surveillance happy city on the planet.

So – Konntryn had somehow been coerced into using his connections to procure the stealth technology and had then been silenced to stop him blowing the plan wide open, double-crossing his ‘partners’ or otherwise getting in their way. Or just because they didn’t like him much.

Which led to two big questions.

The first, obviously, was ‘who had been able to make a perfectly disreputable high-grade layabout get involved with mass murder and catastrophic property destruction?’ The second…well, the second was, ‘why leave the body where it fell rather than burying it or knocking it into a smelting pool?’

Nightbeat had been trying to puzzle that one out since he had first learned of the case. With Vaseeltron, disposing of the body in any other way than leaving it to rust in a sensor blind-spot would have been nigh on impossible. But the Dead End in Tagan was so poorly monitored that you could have disassembled a dozen heavy haulers and built the remains into an attractive set of artistic chairs and no one would have noticed a thing. Therefore, there must have been another reason for not properly dealing with Konntryn. No time? A strong possibility. There were other pressures on a would-be bomber’s time than security sweeps. Carelessness? A _useful_ possibility. And yet one that was at odds with the meticulous planning that must have gone into such a successful act of vandalism. Oh, yes, assuming excellent planning when something had actually relied on luck was a mistake, but fooling the Tarnian system was no easy task. It did not seem likely that mere fortune was responsible. Therefore, there must have been a valid reason for leaving the body in the Dead End.

Several possibilities. Not enough information to narrow them down. Therefore, the focus had to be on the first question. Determine the identity of whoever had been influencing Konntryn and follow the causal chains that branched from there. That was the next step.

And that meant a trip to Praxus.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Tarnian Governmental Feed**

**Planet-wide Broadcast**

**Cybertron**

 

_Viilon’s image peered down, optic wide. The deep purple of his armour made the yellow light look even brighter. “It has been requested that an explanation be given for the on-going military operation in Simfur. This broadcast will serve as that explanation._

“ _At plus six hecta-cycles yesterday morning, Qosho time zone, Tarnian troops entered Simfur in order to assist the people of Simfur in removing the current government from power. Representatives of the revolutionary movement have been in contact with Tarnian officials for the past one point seven six quartex, petitioning for aid in their attempts to force regime change in their city. Two solar-cycles ago, the Tarnian government officially agreed to give that aid._

“ _In the past, Tarn has attempted to help the people of Simfur by supplying fuel and other resources on the understanding that the Simfur government would work to improve conditions for the general populace. These improvements were sporadic and it is widely known that Simfur officials hoarded fuel at the expense of large sections of the working community. I had intended to enact a plan whereby fuel was delivered directly to the people of Simfur via tanker convoy, strengthening their position and allowing them to organise a viable alternative to the current administration. The destruction of the Mahlex Industrial District and the resulting impact on Tarn’s fuel distribution network has rendered that plan inoperable._

“ _With the loss of Tarnian fuel supplies, the Simfur government entered into talks with several cities willing to assist them. To the best of Tarn’s knowledge, these talks were successful and fuel supplies were restored on an emergency basis. However, rather than ease the restrictions imposed following the initial disruption, the Simfur government opted to keep menial-grade fuel rations at ten percent less than the statutory minimum as laid down by the inter-state accords. As a consequence of this irrational act, the people of Simfur have chosen to dissolve their government and take direct control of the running of their city._

“ _As during previous anti-government demonstrations, the Simfur security forces have reacted with excessive and openly lethal force. An estimated sixteen percent of Simfur’s population has been killed or damaged to the point of stasis-lock. While the Civic Guard units currently on the ground have attempted to resolve the situation, they have proven unable to do so. For this reason, it has been concluded that the most appropriate course of action is for Tarn troops to protect the Simfur revolutionaries and neutralise those members of the security forces that chose to fire upon them._

“ _The three divisions of Tarnian soldiers now in Simfur will remain at the disposal of the Simfur people for as long as they are required. The primary objective is the forestalling of any further violence and injury. The secondary objective is to assist in the removal of the current Simfur administration and the detention of their security forces. The tertiary objective is to prevent any hostile neighbouring state from attempting to take advantage of the situation to the detriment of the Simfur people._

“ _Further statements will be given as the operation proceeds. It is requested that all discussion of this matter go through the High Council, as this is the most appropriate forum for the issue. No information will be given to the news feeds beyond that which is released in the official statements.”_

_Viilon’s image vanished, swirling out of focus to be replaced by the Tarnian flag._


	11. Foreign Affairs

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

The ring of Council seats felt uncomfortably empty with only the three of them sitting there. It was, Xaaron thought, uncomfortably close to being a private court, a triumvirate of self-appointed arbitrators ready to dispense arbitrary justice. Even the Prime was absent, his throne looming empty behind them. There was just the three of them – Iacon, Nova Cronum and Vos.

And the one they were there to pass judgement upon.

“I formally request asylum,” Aetalon said, a tremor in her voice, “on behalf of myself and the remaining members of the Simfur government.” She looked from Traachon to Xaaron to Graviitus, eye widening and narrowing. “We fear for our lives if we do not find some protection from the malcontents who have instigated mob rule in our city. They will kill us if they get their hands on us.”

Silence. The sort of silence you get when no one wants to be the first to speak.

Eventually, Traachon got to his feet. “You stand before us,” he proclaimed tremulously, exuding every shred of regal disdain at his disposal, “the representative of a government that has persecuted and neglected its people in equal measure, driving them over the brink of rebellion – and you would have the people of Iacon shelter you from the vengeance of those you oppressed? Your request is refused absolutely. Iacon will not protect those who have turned their backs on the very foundations of Cybertronian civilisation.”

He turned his back on Aetalon and walked away, his dignified contempt only slightly undermined by having to make a long loop around the chamber to get to the doors. Aetalon followed him with her eye, which flashed a furious orange. It faded back to its usual pale red as she turned back to the remaining Emirates. She said nothing, most likely because there really was nothing _to_ say.

Xaaron glanced sideways to see whether Graviitus was going to speak. He was not entirely surprised to see the jet staring fixedly ahead, mouth set into a grim, determined line. Vos, it seemed, was determined to have the last word. What a surprise.

“The parliament of Nova Cronum has already debated this issue,” Xaaron said, standing and looking resignedly back to Aetalon, “and while we have no wish to see any further violence, it would be a contravention of our laws and traditions to interfere in another state’s internal affairs. We are more than willing to help mediate discussions aimed at resolving the current situation peacefully – but we cannot and will not give implicit or explicit support to any of the parties involved. With regret, we decline your request.”

Not that there really was that much real regret amongst the Nova Cronum parliament that the Simfur oligarchs were finally getting what many saw as their just comeuppance. What _did_ exist was a political regret that things had gotten out of hand so quickly – and that Tarn had been the one to seize the initiative and take advantage of resulting chaos. And, for his own part, Xaaron did not bear Aetalon personally any ill-will. She may have been the voice of an utterly corrupt government, but she had never struck him as a corrupt person. Privileged and complacent, absolutely, but not actively immoral. Whatever price she might rightly have to pay for being Simfur’s spokesperson, she did not deserve to be ripped limb from limb by enraged workers.

She reacted to Xaaron’s words with far less anger than she had to Traachon’s. She must have guessed Nova Cronum’s answer before she had asked the question, and even went so far as to murmur a polite acknowledgement of the refusal. In following the traditional practice of gathering together potential asylum providers and requesting their joint or individual protection, she would have given great thought to who was likely to accede to that request.

And ultimately there was only one city that would have been willing to consider taking them. 

Graviitus stood up and opened his hands. “Vos deplores the cowardice displayed by Iacon and Nova Cronum on this matter. We may not agree with how Simfur has been run in the past but we will never condone violence and an abject disregard for the common laws that bind us all. If no one else will stand up for the rights afforded to all by the Inter-State Accords, it is left to Vos alone to do the right thing – the _moral_ thing – and protect those fleeing from Simfur until such time that a properly recognised authority can correctly determine the guilt and innocence of those involved. I hereby extend Vos’ hospitality to those on whose behalf you make this _perfectly reasonable_ request. While we can’t grant you the privileges of visiting dignitaries, we will nonetheless make your stay in our city as comfortable as is proper. And we will most certainly not be pressured into changing our position by any state that wishes to control Simfur for its own ends.”

It seemed a shame that the speech had an audience of only two. Xaaron doubted Lord Taynset himself could have given it better.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Lord Taynset’s Chambers**

**The Palace of Law**

**Vos  
Cybertron**

 

The fine powder sunk slowly through the high-grade, trails of red and blue in pink liquid so pale it was the colour of captive sunlight. A constellation of miniature stars blossomed and sparkled as the almost legal chemicals dissolved into the fuel, filling it with illusory fires. 

Lord Taynset took the two crystal goblets from the serving table and passed one to Sarristec, raising his own in salute. Sarristec responded in kind and together, they took their first sips. The fuel mix slipped down like molten light, leaving a pleasant tingle as it reacted with the lining of their feed-tubes and stirred their self-repair systems. The pattern of reactions criss-crossed and looped back on itself, a pleasant web of corrosion and replenishment that combined with the surge of fresh power to produce a most delectable sensation.

Taynset smiled, and Sarristec dared to smile back. “An excellent distillation, my lord,” he hazarded.

“I am glad to share it with you,” Taynset replied, taking another sip, “Thanks to your efforts, we have been able to take full advantage of Tarn’s most serendipitous misfortune.” He indicated the cityscape visible through the massive windows. “Vos owes you much, my lord Sarristec.”

Sarristec gave a modest little nod. “I owe Vos everything.” He was careful to let some pride show, though, just enough that he need not fear looking ungrateful for the praise.

They stood for a little while, admiring the view and appreciating the fuel. However, concerned a prolonged silence might make him appear too passive, Sarristec lowered his drink and spoke up. “Forgive me for saying so, my lord, but you do not appear especially concerned by events in Simfur…” He hesitated, unsure whether or not this could be taken as implying that the First Lord was reacting in the wrong way.

“Should I be?” Taynset tilted his goblet slightly, stirring the liquid within. His optics flicked from the fuel to the skyline. “Tarn has sent troops to aid of a mob of violent malcontents who have succeeded only in dealing the death blow to a minor state’s antiquated infrastructure. Even if Tarn establishes a whole garrison in Simfur, they will be expending resources on a lost cause.” He made a little, on-the-other-hand gesture. “Meanwhile, thanks to your sterling efforts, we have established favourable energy contracts with Kalis, Dramor, Altihex, Prodium and most especially Tagan. We are in a position to move anything we like through the Tagan Heights, practically free of charge and with no questions asked. Viilon intends to outflank us. Let him try. We have already protected our supply lines and made good headway to cutting him off from every state misguided enough to come to his aid.”

Taynset turned and smiled slightly. “You must understand, my Lord Sarristec, that not every action taken by the enemy needs to be countered on its own terms. Meeting like with like often plays straight into an opponents’ hands. Viilon expects us to protest and to try and have his troops evicted. We will. We will even give shelter to those in Simfur with the wit to flee the consequences of their ineptitude. But we will not make the mistake of concentrating on this situation to the exclusion of our own strategies. It has always been my policy to cut Viilon’s political support rather than his military backing. Tarn boasts the largest state-controlled army in the region, possibly on the planet. But without the support of neighbouring states, it can neither be supplied nor used to any great effect.”

“And that is why we still have an Emirate on the High Council?” Sarristec suggested, thinking back to his early campaign platforms and the general anti-Council sentiment that always emerged at political rallies.

“Among other reasons,” Taynset agreed, “The benefits of being able to stall other states’ plans ultimately outweigh the inconvenience of having our own agendas disrupted. Besides, we must never be seen to be showing disrespect to the Prime. Let that honour be reserved for Viilon.”

They shared a chuckle at that, and Sarristec felt pride swell once more in his processors. To be standing at the very pinnacle of his beloved Vos and to be sharing a joke with one of the most powerful mechs on the planet…it was a bigger kick than anything the fuel could have delivered.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Medical Bay**

**Civic Guard Containment Facility Dega Maxos**

**Primon Flats**

**Cybertron**

 

“You really shouldn’t have waited so long to get this seen to,” the med-tech admonished, carefully disconnecting Megatron’s left elbow, “You’ve only made the wound worse. It’ll have to be completely replaced.”

Ravage smiled to himself as he watched Megatron twitch with irritation. His commander had never coped well with being out of action, no matter how temporarily. Being patronised by doctors would only increase his annoyance.

“Just get on with it,” Megatron growled, flexing his remaining functional hand.

The undertone of promised violence in the order wiped the disdainful look off the medic’s face and he hurriedly set about removing the shattered forearm.

“Tell me – do you always have such reckless disregard for your own health?”

The question came from a tall green and gold mech with wheels slung across his chest and the elegant poise of one used to high society. He walked over to Megatron’s repair bay and crossed his arms, gaze passing over the silver warrior’s injuries.

“I do what needs to be done to _win_.” Megatron did not deign to look up at the newcomer. “That is what a field commander is supposed to do.”

“I’m sure your troops will appreciate your self-sacrifice when you leave them without leadership in the middle of a battle.”

Megatron’s right hand curled into a fist. “Do you want something? Or are you just here to question my tactical decisions.”

“I would hardly consider deciding to launch oneself bodily at a monster capable of tearing an expressway apart with its bare hands, ‘tactical’,” the mech replied huffily, wheels shifting again.

“Vieuxuun…” Megatron paused, visibly forcing his fist to unclench. “I would… _advise_ you to get to the point.”

“The beast has been secured,” the green field commander said curtly, tapping his fingers against his arm.

“I know,” Megatron snapped, “I made sure they did it properly.”

“Indeed. Neglecting proper procedure concerning the treatment of your injuries in the process.”

“Did you just come here to list my failings to adhere to _precise protocol_?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” The green soldier gave a dismissive wave. “Not your disregard for your own health. What concerns me is your conduct during the operation itself.”

“My –” Megatron’s face twisted. “What _exactly_ was wrong with my conduct?”

Vieuxuun’s eyes narrowed. “Your choice of reinforcements. Rather than calling in all available combat units, you instead selected squads exclusively from within your battalion. You made the decision based not on sound tactical judgement but on a preferential attitude towards _your_ troops.” He uncrossed his arms and pointed accusingly at Megatron. “This was supposed to be a joint operation, our two battalions acting as one. Instead, you restricted your options and, as a direct result, not enough troops were deployed, the situation spilled out of control and that creature was allowed to go on a rampage. A rampage that seems to have been the ignition point for a full scale uprising.”

“Are you accusing me of _starting the Simfur riots_?” There was a very dangerous undertone in that oh-so-quietly asked question. Megatron was on the very edge of losing his temper and Ravage could guess how that would end, missing arm or no missing arm.

“I am suggesting that your misjudgement was a contributing factor. You should have summoned squads from my battalion in addition to those from your own.”

Megatron’s fingers were clacking against one another now, such was the force with which his hand clenched and unclenched. “I called in troops I _knew_ could handle the situation. Bentwing’s aerial unit, Optrion’s squads, Turbo’s cavaliers – I know those soldiers, I knew they were who I needed to deploy.”

Vieuxuun was completely undeterred. “You had access to the full tactical readouts on all members of both battalions. Both Temoraal and Hevacce’s squads would have been an asset to you in that situation and both were free to be redeployed. As was the unit of Air Guardians assigned to my forces. Ultimately, you didn’t choose the mechs best suited to the battle – you chose those you _trusted_ to fight by your side.”

Clack. Clack. Clack. Megatron’s optics flashed crimson.

“I understand,” Vieuxuun went on, as if oblivious to the anger that threatened to consume him, “You are a warrior of the frontier. You are used to relying on your battalion alone, on your own, unreinforced initiative. As a consequence, you hold those of us who do not fight out on the edge of known space in contempt. And in spite of what you may think, we _do_ fight, Megatron. My troops are as seasoned as yours. We have fought off raiders, pirates, even would-be invaders. More to the point, we have more experience fighting our own kind. That expertise was at your command and you chose to ignore it because you did not trust us. Given that, how am _I_ supposed to trust _you_?”

Clack. Clack. Clunk. Megatron said absolutely nothing. Forgotten by the two field commanders, the med-tech hovered nervously by the repair bay, a proto-matter dispenser held hesitantly at the ready.

Ravage, meanwhile, had determined four different ways in which Vieuxuun could be fatally disabled. The young field commander was nowhere near as heavily armoured as Megatron and he possessed reasonably limited in-built armaments. It would be a simple matter to rip into his vital components and disrupt his core consciousness before he could shunt it to safety. A sufficient energy charge delivered through physical contact with his major systems would send him offline and melt enough neural pathways to render his body uninhabitable. What was left of his spark would be shattered into incoherent code, scattered throughout dead processors.

Of course, they would have to kill the medic as well, but that would present no great difficulty. And Ravage was more than capable of hacking into the security systems – convince them that they had seen something else and there need be no evidence to suggest that either he or Megatron were involved. It could all be done quickly and cleanly, without fuss.

Although if Megatron gave in to the urge to rip Vieuxuun’s chest open with his one remaining hand, it would be a lot harder to cover things up. Perhaps they could plead justified homicide…

Vieuxuun’s posture shifted, just a little. Maybe he had finally realised how dangerously he was behaving. “I have the greatest respect for you as a soldier,” he said quickly, “That is why I am raising these points directly rather than going over your head to complain. I hope that we can function together effectively. I must insist, however, that you acknowledge and respond to the issues I have just laid out.”

Silence.

Then Megatron unclenched his fist. “You are partly correct,” he allowed, “In the heat of battle, I responded as I would have fighting on an alien world. I will not accept that my decision was wrong. The riots would have happened if that thing had rampaged or not. Yes, more troops would have ended the battle sooner. But your Air Guardians would have been unable to manoeuvre at such close quarters and Temoraal’s squad is composed almost exclusively of light artillery. I needed cavaliers, mechs used to fighting pitched battles on the move, and Bentwing’s flyers, who know how to fly in confined spaces. I made the call and we _won_. But...I…admit I did not properly consider your troops’ abilities at the time. I will not make that mistake again.”

“Then I believe we can continue to work together,” Vieuxuun said magnanimously, “I look forward to our next strategy briefing. Good day.”

Ravage waited until the green mech was well and truly out of sight and the med-tech was busying himself with the reconstruction of Megatron’s forearm before rising to speak to his commander. “Even after all this time, you still find ways to surprise me.”

Megatron looked down at him. “What did you expect? That I’d get in to a raging argument with a fellow officer?”

“Frankly, yes. He insulted you.”

The silver giant laughed, nearly causing the med-tech to lose control of the proto-matter feed. “He’s not worth the effort. And he was right. We aren’t on the frontier anymore.”

“Perhaps not…” Ravage’s claws flicked from their housings. “But to imply that you neglected your duty and triggered an uprising through carelessness…”

Just for a moment, Megatron’s anger returned, vengeful red rushing back into his optics. It cleared almost at once though and he shook his head. “Only a fool would believe collateral damage could be completely avoided or intelligence reports would be perfect. I did my duty to the best of my ability and I delivered a bunch of anarchists and their pet monstrosity into the holding cells.” He shrugged, making the med-tech start and scowl furiously. “What more should I have done?”

Torn Vieuxuun’s insolent face free from its moorings, perhaps? Ravage gave a shrug of his own and settled back down on his haunches. “Your duty is all that anyone has the right to ask of you, commander.”

Even if it was much more than many of them deserved.


	12. Night Scene

**Racetrack’s Precision Bodywork**

**The East Merchant District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

 

They always said rain was unlucky.

It was very unusual for it to reach Praxus, or any of the northern Lakatera cities. Only once in a long while would the clouds rising above the Iron Sea travel so far. Most often, they would break over Polyhex or be driven west toward Kalis or Prodium. It was rare indeed for the wind to herd them up from the south and pile them menacingly in the sky over the East Ridge.

When it did, anyone sensible huddled inside. Even if the rain was light, it still caused disruption and discomfort, leaving roads slick and joints sodden. When it was heavy, travel in the open became near impossible and it was not uncommon for people to wind up in need of a medic. Some lost control on the expressways and ended up with their bumpers bumped. Some had to deal with short-circuiting systems, rust-rashes and a dozen other maladies that got inside you and wrecked you from within. Some…well, the worst storms had left memorials in their wake.

So rain was unlucky. Over time, that short hand for all the things it caused had mutated. It wasn’t just, ‘rain is unlucky because of the consequences,’ it was, ‘rain brings bad luck.’

Rain brings bad luck.

Aratron looked out at the clouds massing in the sky and quickly looked back at the fender he was supposed to be painting in lacquer. The feme on the work bench shifted on her axles, irritated at him for pausing, no matter how briefly. “Is this going to take much longer? I have things to do and I _don’t_ want to get wet.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, twisting the applicator to the right setting for making the finishing touches, “I’m nearly done.”

Completing the last layer, he switched off the spray and stepped back, giving his patient the space to transform. She stretched and lifted her arm, examining the rapidly drying fender. She hummed. “Well, it’ll do.” Then added, a little grudgingly, “Thanks.” And, hurriedly beaming payment to the shop’s account, she flipped back into car mode and rushed through the door, intent on beating the rain to the subways.

Aratron raised the applicator in wry salute to her rapidly vanishing back. It wasn’t as if she was the first customer to barely acknowledge his existence. He busied himself cleaning the table and tools, clearing the decks for the next glitch with the money to waste on looking pretty. Which probably wasn’t entirely fair on all the people who came in wanting minor but necessary modifications or dents popped out after a really good night out, but slag it – he was feeling miserable, so why the Pit should he be fair?

Raindrops started to ping off the ground outside. One of the nearest towers trembled, unfolding panels into giant fans to protect its access ways from the coming deluge. Passers-by sped up, glancing up nervously as they made for cover.

“Yeh should get going, lad.” Racetrack came up to Aratron’s side, putting an encouraging hand on his shoulder. “Ye’ve already stayed longer than ah can pay yeh fer.”

“Yeah…sorry…it’s just…” He trailed off uncomfortably.

“Dun be. Ah’m the one who shud be apologisin’, not yuh.” The purple speedster waved his free hand in an irritated gesture. “Yeh a damn good worker. Yeh deserve better pay…”

“But you can’t afford to give me it,” Aratron finished, “Look, I get it. I’ll…I’ll get by.”

“An’ as soon as things pick up agin, ah’m gonna make sure yeh wages go back to what they were – better’n what they were,” Racetrack assured him emphatically, “Now get going a’fore the rain gets heavy!”

Aratron smiled ruefully and nodded. Rapping Racetrack's knuckles with his fist, he pulled free and transformed. Waiting only to flash his lights in response to his boss's half-cheery wave, he drove out into the deepening gloom.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Inner City**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

 

The city hunkered down to protect itself from the weather. Buildings reconfigured to create better drains. Expressways grew opalescent covers, tunnels of flexible glass many hix in length that came spiralling out of the lighting rings. The open-air plazas hurriedly stopped being open-air and withdrew underground.

The smart set began to move their parties indoors and everyone else was quick to follow their example.

Fat raindrops splatted unpleasantly against Aratron's hood as he accelerated, leaving behind oily smudges that quickly evaporated in the heat from his engine. He angled for the welcome cover of the underground streets, following a slip road that curved suddenly as it reshaped itself around the buildings shifting above and, just for a moment, he imagined he might be racing for the entranceway forever, the beckoning tunnel always just out of reach.

But then the road caught up with the subway and he shot inside without so much as a bump. Behind him, the drumbeat of the raindrops grew more and more insistent. The noise chased him in, only to become lost beneath the local din.

The underground rang with a thousand sets of wheels and another thousand sets of feet. The whine of hover-drives, the howl of thrusters and the background roar of dumb machinery fought to be heard over the simple thunder of bodies in motion. The air was thick with fumes and the stink of friction. People jostled against each other, everyone determined that their journey was the most important. Aratron was forced to constantly manoeuvre, weaving this way and that to keep from being batted into the walls.

Things were no better when he jumped to his feet and climbed up to the pedestrian level above. A burly heavy-loader nearly flattened him within the first few steps and he caught several dozen more dents and dings before he found the side-street he was looking for. It was that kind of place. You kept moving or you learned what it was like to be a road bump.

The side-street was thankfully clear of crowds, walking or otherwise. Light from a train rumbling overhead briefly showed a once-colourful set of shop fronts, their signs flickering infra-red messages at shoppers who weren't there. The ground was littered with cans and fragments of metal, and worryingly unidentifiable objects that could have been broken machines and could have been broken people. Aratron caught a quick movement at the far end, something small and panicked retreating deeper into the shadows. He didn't look too closely.

Only one of the doorways showed signs of recent use. There was less garbage in front of it and the signs around it were just that bit more vibrant. In letters that were just the wrong side of visible light, they proclaimed that this was the Helix Oilhouse, a licensed place of entertainment open throughout the night and serving a wide range of select fuel distillations and quality oils from across Cybertron.

Having seen them all before, Aratron barely glanced at the words and went straight inside. The oilhouse had low-level visible lights, just enough to show up the customer's colours and, perhaps more importantly, the colour of the what they were buying. The usual crowd weren't the flashy decal type, but they weren't about to spend hard-earned pay on second-rate fuel. It wasn't just the high-grades who liked to see a bit of sparkle in their beakers.

Shoving his way through the mass of labourers and technicians – and round the legs of a couple of haulers – Aratron made his way to the bar, signalling for attention from the nearest dispenser. It craned over and beamed him the night's menu. The stock changed daily now, mostly because of increasingly shaky supply lines. He picked out a quart of Detra-Morllon and a tube of Black Metix. The price made him hesitate for half a mirco-cycle but he paid anyway. It wasn't as if saving the money would make him feel any better.

Walking away from the bar, shoving the tube into his shoulder, he looked around for somewhere to drink his fuel in peace. The oil slowly flooded his joints as he moved, pulsing through his body, pleasantly thick. It flushed away the grit and grime of everyday exertion and by the time he spotted Gauun waving enthusiastically at him from a corner, he was feeling freer and more relaxed, if not exactly more cheerful.

“Wheels!” Gauun grabbed his free arm and practically dragged him down onto the bench. “What kept you? I've been sitting here for _ages_!” He lifted his arms, hunching his shoulders forward to show off the blue markings that had been plastered across them. “What d'you think of these? Pretty cool, huh? It's real cyrianate too! Got it done –”

Aratron slammed his fuel can onto the table between them. “Look, just...don't start, OK? Not tonight.”

“Don't start what? Wheels?” Looking abruptly concerned, Gauun leant forward. “Hey, Wheels, what's wrong?”

He almost said nothing. Almost got up and left, right then and there. It was a stupid, angry impulse that he knew would have felt extremely good to give in to. But he didn't. He was tired and depressed and needed to whine to someone. Perhaps Gauun would even cheer him up. It wouldn't be the first time.

“Racetrack cut my pay again,” he said gloomily, opening his fuel inlet and tipping in a couple of measures of the Detra-Morllon, “Had to. Power rates are up, metal costs are up, customers are down. Again.”

“Mate...” Gauun clapped him on the shoulder. “Can't you find something else?”

“Like what? It's not as if any other bodyshop job would pay any better. And do I look like I'd make a good dock worker? Anyway, I'm not just going to walk out on Racetrack. He's been good to me.”

“Yeah, but...look, if you need help, you come to me, OK? I've got another deal going through with a race team – proper athletes this time – they're budgets gone down too, but that's still mega-shanix for the likes of us, so I got in there as the cheap-but-brilliant alternative and, yeah, they think they're getting one over on me but I'm on to a fortune with it! So I'm gonna have money to spare and if you're gonna struggle then you gotta let me help you –”

“You want to help me?” Aratron interrupted, “You buy the next round and you help me forget about it.” He shifted uncomfortably, shrugging off Gauun's hand. “I'll survive. Always have before, right?”

“Yeah...I guess so.” For a moment, Gauun was at a loss for words. Just for a moment though. He quickly recovered and launched into a rambling account of his new project, seguing into praise for the aerodynamic properties of racers and how they provided such a unique base for decals. Aratron let it wash over him, the familiarity of his friend's over-enthusiasm doing something to carry him away from his everyday worries.

Gauun may have been a bit of an glitch but no one could ever accuse him of being bad company. He was one of those people who would get you into a conversation even if he had to carry on both sides of it himself. And he never skimped on the oil and fuel. That was pretty much the main reason he had always been hopeless with money. He never got it into his processors that not being paid meant putting off having a good time.

Despite not really wanting to do anything beyond sit and rust, Aratron was dragged into making sarcastic comments, picking apart dumb ideas and, inevitably, into a long, sprawling argument about the place of aesthetics in the modern industrial sector and how much it must cost to put the average professional gladiator back together again after the semi-finals. Somewhere along the line the two subjects had become mixed up – probably thanks to the growing pile of empty fuel cans spreading unstoppably across the table. Aratron found himself confused about whether Gauun was arguing for prettier smelting pools or for grudge matches to be held over cauldrons of lava. He quickly decided it didn't really matter and tipped another quart of energon into his mouth.

His optics wandered away from his friend, who was listing to the right at an increasingly disturbing angle, and across the oilhouse floor. The crowd had not thinned as the night wore on but it had changed shape – some parts more literally than others. In one corner, a bunch of technicians had taken to their computer block modes and arranged themselves into an unsteady tower that hummed with excited algorithms. In another, one of the haulers lay spark out in truck mode, panels twitching with the final after-effects of an overload.

The bar was still jammed with waiting customers, those newly arrived and those going back for the twentieth round. You could have taken a slice through that line and found one of every kind of mech. The sensible, quiet flyer patiently working his way through a whole dect of Tetra-Helix. The blue car, optics bright and wide, ranting inanely into the audio of a bored racer who looked to be on the brink of telling him where to shove it. The lanky loader with his tall glass of black oil, slowly draining it, savouring every drop. The squat tank knocking back can after can, shouting at the servers for more and more fuel. The avir sprawled across the bar, fluttering weakly. The quad jumping up and down, desperate to get some service.

So many people looking to fry away their troubles in a haze of shorting circuits and burning self-repair systems. Or feed their addictions. Or just have a good night out. That was the point of a cross-section of the city, wasn't it? All kinds of people, here for all kinds of reasons, drinking all sorts of things -

Gauun poked him. “You still in there?” He frowned, optics slightly out of focus. “You, uh, communing with Primus or something? Cos I don't wanta interrupt a religious experience cos I know how much fuel it'd take to get you back there - an I don't think that's safe - and you probably don't want to get all transcendental anyway cos - cos that's gotta be boring right? I mean, what d'the Circuit Masters do all day anyway? Sit around and look into the wells and think and stuff - gotta be boring.”

“I don't want to go and be a Circuit Master,” Aratron assured him, slowly and clearly.

“Thank the Primal Program! I couldn't stand it if I didn't have you to talk to. No one else listens to me!”

That wasn't true. Lots of people listened to him, if only because he didn't really give anyone any choice.

“Yeah, but you actually _listen_ ,” Gauun went on, even though Aratron was sure he hadn't answered out loud, “You don't just put up with me.”

“You're my friend,” Aratron told him with a shrug, “That's what friends do.”

Anything more that Gauun might have said to that was cut off by an angry yell from the bar. The grey racer had leapt up and was going for the blue mech, his hands digging into the car's yellow chest plate. His victim was still talking, apparently undeterred by the fact that his audience was trying to murder him. An instant later, he pivoted effortlessly and, _still_ talking, sent the racer sprawling into a rapidly clearing patch of floor.

Aratron tried to make out what the car was saying over the din of raised voices and clashing metal. Something about blackmail...? And...insider trading?

The racer sprang up and swung wildly, hitting three people who were just trying to get out of his way. The servers began to keen in alarm, their sensors and arms swinging about in panic. Ducking under his attacker's fists, the car wrapped one long arm around the racer's waist and whirled him round, the flailing legs driving the crowd even further back. Several people cried out. A loud murmur went up from near the door and a long gap opened, customers moving to the side as the hulking bouncer pulled himself free from the wall, his massive fists flexing hungrily.

The blue mech had, meanwhile, manoeuvred the racer into a head-lock and managed to pin his arms tightly behind his back. All the prisoner could do was fling his legs about in an attempt to break free. Helpless, he was dragged across the room, right into the path of the oncoming bouncer. Aratron couldn't quite make out what the security mech turned into but he would have put down good money that it was something large and unpleasant.

Going purely on size difference, there was no way the blue mech was going to get his captive to the door. He kept going all the same, tightening his grip as the racer tried to throw him off by transforming. Aratron winced in sympathy as armour plates jerked and battered against the car's hands – experience told him that it couldn't have been pleasant for either mech.

The bouncer loomed over them, demanding they stop their fight and leave before he was forced to rip them new exhausts. The car pointed out that they were leaving anyway and if the bouncer would kindly step aside – his exact words – he would be happy never to bother him or the establishment again, unless it was absolutely necessary or they were selling Novus Special Distillation for a tenth of the usual price. The bouncer growled and lifted a fist to hammer the car into the floor.

A brilliant flash of light blotted out everyone's vision. Aratron's quickly adjusted. The bouncer wasn't so lucky and, clutching at his face, he collapsed, probably suffering from sensor shock. The 'horns' on either side of the blue car's head rotated back to vertical, their tips glowing slightly with the heat of the photon charge. He smiled, gave a little bow to the crowd, and dragged his captive out of the door.

Aratron turned slowly back to Gauun, who was shaking his head vigorously in an effort to get his optics working properly again. They stared at each other dumbly. “What the ever-loving Pit just happened?” Gauun demanded, his optics finally snapping back to their normal yellow.

“I haven't slagging clue,” his friend told him bluntly, reaching for a still half-full can, “But if you're still paying, I plan t' keep drinking like it never did.”

Gauun thought about this for a micro-cycle. “Good plan,” he concluded, reaching for a can of his own, “Didn't look like it was any of our business anyway. And speakin' of business, did I tell you how I got them to give up on this stupid idea of painting themselves in alien skin patterns...?”


	13. Confessions

**The Underground**

**Inner City**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

 

“This is how it's going to go. You are going to tell me everything. You are going to tell me what Konntryn was doing. You are going to tell me how you found out. You are going to tell me how much detail you got. You are going to tell me who you sold it to.” Nightbeat shifted his balance, pressing his foot down ever so slightly harder. “And you are going to tell me _quickly_.”

Almost as if it had been perfectly timed to underline his point (it was two micro-cycles late) a train hurtled past on the opposite track. The shock wave from its passing broke over the two of them, making the grey racer – better known to his friends/enemies/creditors as Hardrive – flinch and squirm. Nightbeat's foot was unrelenting. As were the heavy binders he had fastened around Hardrive's arms and legs.

The bound mech's struggles died away with the echoes of the train's engines. He stared up at his captor with wide blue optics. “I don't know what you're talking about!”

The predictability of the response brought out Nightbeat's sadistic tendencies. “Sure you don't,” he growled, digging his heel in, “That's why you tried to attack me in the bar when I accused you of being a blackmailer in league with murderers. Look, I'm in a bit of a hurry here. I don't have time for the usual 'don't know what you mean officer' routines. And you –” He grinned. “You _really_ don't have time for it.”

Hardive twisted his head in panic, trying to see how far off the next train was. It was hopeless. He was hanging out over the tracks just as they curved into a fairly sharp bend, meaning that there would be no way of seeing what was coming until it was practically on top of him. There was only the rumble of approaching machinery and the roar of the rain, scattered by the surrounding towers until they merged into a meaningless cacophony. Nothing to tell him how long he had left. Nothing to give him any grip on his situation.

He trembled on the edge of terror, fighting for some purchase on his situation. It slid through his fingers, leaving him with only one way out.

“Ok! Ok!” He practically screamed it. “He was scraping profit off his shareholders and feeding it into fake companies! He'd done his investors out of thousands! Hid it all in the stock-reports and the investment accounts! I do freelance work as an accountant – one of his stakeholders got suspicious – I did the work, said I'd found nothing and put the screw on that Elite glitch! I'd got everything! Transfer information, account details, the real profit figures! It wasn't hard – just needed to get past the bank's privacy walls. _They_ don't care what he does – did – they got all the money anyway, what did it matter where it came from? No one cared! Only mattered to him – what he'd lose if anyone had found out – it was easy! He was too scared to try and stop me!”

“That's nice.” Nightbeat smiled. “What a blow for the oppressed. It must have given you an enormous sense of well-being.”

“It made me fragging rich!” Hardrive shrieked venomously.

“Which someone else noticed.”

He nodded frantically, as best he could while lying on his back, optics flashing blue to purple and back again. “Yes! Ok, yes! They did! I –”

His mouth snapped shut. For the briefest of moments, Nightbeat wondered if he had finally recovered enough of his presence of mind to try and bluff or brave his way off the tracks. But no. It was just another wave of terror, one that threatened to out-class an imminent crushing demise. 

“Have you ever had to shunt your consciousness about while under extreme stress?” Nightbeat asked conversationally, tapping Hardrive's chest with his toes, “It's like trying to squeeze through a narrow pipe while it's being tossed from one side of the Iron Sea to the other. It's not actually impossible but one slip in your concentration and you've had it. How good's your concentration, by the way? They say receiving major damage while you're trying to shunt your spark about is actually worse than dying outright, because you get to feel yourself being shredded into disconnected code before the end. They say you can see your memories and feelings being ripped away until there's not enough left to hold you together and _poof_! You're gone. Not even enough left to join the Allspark. They say. I mean, you can't believe half of what _they_ say, can you? How would anybody know, anyway? Still...it can't be pleasant, whatever it feels like, can it?”

“I can't tell you!” Hardrive blurted out frantically, twisting futilely against the restraints, “I...look, please! I can't tell you!”

“Oh yes you can,” Nightbeat admonished calmly, “And I thought we'd agreed you didn't have time to play the usual games, hmm...?”

The grey mech's jaw worked soundlessly for a few micro-cycles, optics flickering, expression shifting with fear, frustration and anger. Then, finally, he said something, so quietly that even Nightbeat's acute audios could not quite make it out.

He said nothing. Simply waited silently, looking down patiently and gently tapping his toes. Eventually, Hardrive repeated himself, slightly louder, just loud enough to be heard.

Nightbeat smiled.

Lifting his foot off Hardrive's chest and stepping back, he hauled the unfortunate blackmailer away from the tracks, setting him up on his behind. No sooner had he done so than a massive freight train thundered by, perfectly on time and going at full speed. Hardrive screamed, tried to jump up, and fell flat on his face.

Still smiling, his captor righted him again and then bent down to speak softly into his main audio-receptors. “Now, let's go over everything you told them and then, if you're good, I might show you how to get out of this city without anyone even knowing you're gone...”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Civic Guard Base**

**Tagen**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _Diatrion! Don't care what you're doing, this is important. Get to Praxus. Right now. Drive here on your own power if you have to, but get here. It's vital. I'm about to crack it all wide open and you're going to need to be here to see it. Especially because if you're not here, I'm probably going to be dead before I can solve it all properly. I mean, I know everything already but I'd really like to be the one who gets to go in and get the slaggers myself, rather than be the one who's slowly cooling corpse points the way to where they're hiding. I'm funny like that, what can I say? So, yes – get up here as fast as you can. Tell them it's official business, get a transfer, desert your post, whatever. Just. Get. Here. Now.”_

Diatrion had no idea how Nightbeat had managed to get the message to the top of the morning's file stack. And, after viewing the low-resolution but extremely animated hologram a couple more times, he concluded that he really did not want to know.

It took rather longer for him to decide what to do about it.

The very fact that the commercial investigator had called for his help suggested that things were getting serious. As much as he hated to admit it – and he hated it a lot – there was a very real possibility that Nightbeat had lived up to his word and uncovered something important, even case-solving. Moreover, duty demanded that threats to citizens, supposed or proven, be investigated swiftly. If Nightbeat was in danger, the spirit of the law said that Diatrion owed him protection.

The letter of the law, however, had some fairly strict things to say about Civic Guardsmechs leaving their assigned positions to chase halfway round the planet on the say-so of private individuals. According to the regulations, he should alert the Praxian investigators and have them determine whether Nightbeat was really being threatened. They could then take the appropriate action. Which would probably be to place Nightbeat in protective custody – protection to and from whom, debatable – and thereby bring his investigation to a crashing halt.

Diatrion could already hear the long, winding protests and accusations of letting justice be crushed beneath blind reg-following.

He played the message through again, almost unconsciously noticing the transmission signature was that of a temporary housing block in Praxus' north sector. There was nothing in the data-structure to suggest that it had been bounced about in an effort to disguise its point of origin. There was nothing more than some standard private encryption to secure the contents. It had the look of something composed in a hurry, dashed off between following up leads with Nightbeat's signature verbosity.

Except that Diatrion couldn't quite believe that. He had studied up on Nightbeat after their...'meeting' and putting that together with his first-hand impressions, he doubted very much if the blue mech did anything in a hurry. Oh, he did everything _fast_. But that included thinking, planning, _acting_. A careless, rushed message did not fit with his records. It did not make sense.

The public channel. The imprecise content. The complete lack of specific information.

Nightbeat was sending a message and it was sure as scrap not meant for Diatrion. He was trying to bait someone into rash action, or else trying to manoeuvre them into revealing themselves. Diatrion just happened to be the most convincing recipient for the bait.

He wondered how much Nightbeat knew and whether he really believed that he needed help. Was the request for help genuine or was it just theatre? More importantly, could it be risked either way?

No. Of course it couldn't.

There was no response when he tried to call Nightbeat back. The channel had been blocked, naturally enough. There wasn't much point tying to force someone into the open and then giving them a way to contact you with anonymity. Nightbeat was, despite appearances, thorough.

Left with no choice, Diatrion went to see his commander.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Commander's Office**

**Civic Guard Base**

**Tagen**

**Cybertron**

 

Tynllonn wasn't impressed, either with Nightbeat's communication or the way Diatrion had handled the commercial investigator's involvement. He gave a short, irritated speech about the importance of procedure and following the regulations when it came to classified information.

Diatrion did not bother to defend his actions. There was no way to defend them. His dereliction of duty was too obvious. He focused instead on pleading to be allowed to see the case through. If he could go to Praxus and find out what Nightbeat had uncovered, there was a chance it would lead to Konntryn's murderer. It was, he insisted, not something that could be ignored. Nightbeat's record spoke for itself when it came to his ability. Whatever his methods, if his investigation into the Tarn bombing intersected with the Konntryn case, they could not afford to ignore him.

At that, Tynllonn frowned, his already black mood darkening further. “You start drawing connections like that,” he boomed, “you're going to start getting in over your pay-grade. I'll not have the Magnus coming down on us because you think you know better than the special investigation squad.”

“I don't think I know better,” Diatrion said, as measured as he could manage, “That's the point. I don't know. I don't know who killed Konntryn or why. The leads here are dead. If there's a chance Nightbeat _does_ know, we need to get to him before someone else does.”

Tynllonn glared at him, optic strip burning green. “Konntryn, Konntryn – to the pit with Konntryn! You think this isn't going to go beyond one smashed body? Slag it, if there's even a hint of something political in this...”

Diatrion drew himself even further to attention. “With respect, commander, my job is to find out who's responsible for the one smashed body and bring them to justice.” He didn't add, that's what the law requires of me. He had a feeling that if he did, any chance of getting to Praxus would die screaming.

As it was, Tynllonn's glare intensified, boring into his subordinate as if trying to make him back down by shear radiation pressure. When that didn't work, he threw up his arms and sat back in his seat.

“Fine.” His voice had sunk to a bass growl. “You want to chase some insubordinate idiot-savant around the planet, you go right ahead and chase him. I'll grant you permission, pending the Praxian lot's approval. Shouldn't have any trouble there though,” he added with a dismissive gesture, “They'll probably thank you for taking the responsibility. Which you are. All of it. You do this, the outcome's on you and this... _investigator_. I'll not lift one finger to get you out of the firing line if it comes to that.”

Which was, Diatrion thought, an empty threat given that Tynllonn, as the senior officer, was the one the Magnus' office would look to if it came to 'that.' It occurred to him abruptly that his commander was taking a personal risk solely on the basis of Diatrion's judgement and he felt considerable gratitude towards the older mech, not to mention a good deal of vindication. “Thank you sir!” he said aloud, snapping off a parade-ground standard salute.

Tynllonn just glowered and pointed to the door. “If you're going, go. You don't want to hang around while someone moves in to smash up your lead.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**'Red Comet' Temporary Housing Block**

**North District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

 

Nightbeat was not an impatient mech. Least-ways, not a mech to whom patience was a great difficulty. If he knew what someone was going to do – and he invariably would, if he set his mind to it – he could out-wait the stars themselves in order to observe the fulfilment of his prediction.

The difficulty came when he was not certain of the outcome.

Someone would react to the message to Diatrion. Preferably Diatrion. Certainly someone else with more dangerous intentions. That was, as far as he and universe were concerned, immutable fact rooted in basic psychology and criminal sociology.

Except he did not know what that someone would be like.

There were many possibilities. The hired thug. The smooth-talking middle-mech. The professional assassin. Perhaps even someone actually important in the greater scheme of things. But he had very little means of narrowing those possibilities down. What-ifs pummelled him from all sides. Probabilities rose and fell with every scenario he constructed.

True uncertainty made him restless. Sitting and waiting become painful necessities.

He tried to distract himself by flipping through the entertainment nets. The Praxus ether was alive with competing channels, all screaming for attention. He skipped straight through the news, which was mainly concerned with the arguments raging within the Prime's Council following Tarn's not-so-subtle annexing of Simfur. That was all politics and politics was inherently boring, following as it did patterns of incomparable predictability. The sport was chiefly gladiatorial, mixed in with races from the tracks out west in the Prodium Trenches. Potentially interesting, if only the natural chaos in the games had been allowed to come through. Instead, it simmered under the surface, tied down tight by unrelenting constructs of theatricality and outside interests.

The purely entertainment shows were little better. Poetry following ancient schemes as staid and flat as any old ruin. Displays of art no more engaging for being rendered in electronic impulses. Especially the ones _meant_ to be viewed like that. Artists always screamed their intentions and meaning at their audience, for fear that someone might miss the nuances. That was more irritating than boring. Unmysterious things trying too hard to look like mysteries.

He settled, finally, on the fashion-casts. He had got as far as calculating the top-selling mods for the next cycle, determining that lime would be the new puce and identifying seven presenters who were overdosing on illegal circuit simulators when every network vanished and the lights went out.

More than out. Everything went completely dark. Every sense was muted. Only the pickling on his armour let him know his spark hadn't suddenly been ripped from his body. That, and the extremely low likelihood of his spark suddenly being ripped from his body.

Ah. The tingling gave it away. The faint tingle of negons sucking energy from his skin. A black light beam. In theory, an extremely corrosive particle stream, although no one had ever managed to properly weaponise it. Primarily useful because it completely absorbed all exposed photons within the targeted area, thereby rendering anyone caught in that area completely blind. It also severely impeded the progress of sound waves and played havoc with pressure sensors. Result: one severely disorientated victim.

That was the theory, anyway.

He just stood still and let the blackness engulf him and waited for it to fade again. The power requirements to maintain a black light beam were high and the emitters tended to collapse if you fired them for long periods of time. Simple mathematics meant that a beam large enough to totally engulf him would only last for about three point seven six cycles.

Three point seven four cycles later, the beam cut out. The lights in the habitation unit were really off, it turned out, along with every detectably power source in the room. It was not possible to scan beyond the room.

A slightly-built mech with red optics sat in the shadows that had swallowed the far corner. He was perched causally on the seat extruded from the walls, his features distorted by a complex scrambler field. It made it look almost as if he was caught in a beam of black light himself, albeit one that was fluctuating wildly. That was just an optical illusion though – the technologies were completely distinct.

“Hi,” the intruder greeted him, his voice distorted but not enough to disguise its natural pleasantness, “Didn't startle you too much, did I?”

“Oh, no. I try not to be startled. It saves time.” Nightbeat smiled winningly. “For example, I know why you're here, so you don't have to spell it out for me or anything.”

“Don't I now?” The mech shifted slightly, his crazy cloak fluttering about him. “I did hear you were good at your job.”

“Oh, I am. So you've heard of me? Good! You tell me who you are and we'll have got through the pointless bits of this conversation in record time!”

The mech in the corner shifted again. There was a _thunk_ from inside his scrambler field and something came out, rolling across the floor to stop against Nightbeat's toe. He looked down. Hardrive's dead optics looked back at him, the face that contained them frozen in a horrified grimace.

“Me?” the mech said, “I'm the Black Shadow.”


	14. The Brink of Victory

**Emirate Xaaron's Suite**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

“We are acting in good faith and with all due deference to the Inter-State Accords. We haven't done anything wrong in offering our assistance to the people of Simfur, and I am getting tired of repeating this.” Haccano's face-plates shifted in annoyance and he thumped the edge of Xaaron's desk for emphasis. “I would have thought that protecting innocent civilians would be something even the Council could agree on.”

“And if the Council was convinced that that was what Tarn was doing, they probably would.” Xaaron shrugged. “Would you accept troops in Simfur if it was Vos putting them there?”

Annoyance became anger. “That is an unjustified comparison. Vos' unscrupulousness has been more than adequately demonstrated by its response to the Mahlex disaster. We, on the other hand, have never behaved with anything less than total honesty with our neighbours.”

“I know. That's what's so worrying.” Resting his chin on folded hands, Xaaron frowned thoughtfully. “You must understand that doing this will only aggravate your relations with Vos. And I find it hard to believe that is what you really want.”

“We have never been the aggressor!” Haccano drove a fist into an open palm. “Vos has tried to undermine Tarn since we were established as a city-state. They have only intensified their efforts now that the Logical Revolution has proven a success.”

“And Vos would argue that Tarn is overtly threatening their borders with its extravagant military investment, that its obsessive monitoring of its citizens is the sign of a dangerously oppressive autocracy, and that by moving troops into Simfur it has simply revealed the expansionism that lies at the heart of Viilon's regime. I suspect everyone on the Council knows this argument by rote – look, I did not ask you hear so we could exchange official rants.”

With a gesture, Xaaron cut his desk's recording system, then made a show of closing down his in-built third-party recorders. He looked pointedly at Haacono. The big Tarnian scowled, then shut off his own documentation units. They stared at each other in silence for a moment.

“Where is this all going to end, Haacano?” Xaaron asked, optics dimming a little.

“With Vos as a smoking ruin, if I had any say in it.”

“I don't mean the feud. I meant Simfur. Are you honestly telling me those soldiers are _just_ there to keep the peace?”

Haccano tilted his head to the side. “They asked for our help, Xaaron. No one else would have listened to them. You think the Prime's Council would ever have agreed to deploy Defence Directorate forces inside a city-state, no matter how wretched? If we hadn't gone in, when we did, thousands more would be dead.”

“And now you have gone in, it's just possible that their lives will be ruined anyway.” Xaaron hissed in exasperation. “I cannot believe that Viilon would do this out of the goodness of his spark, and neither can anyone else. Is he deliberately trying to provoke his neighbours?”

“I...” Haacano paused, caught between defensiveness and reassurance. “He would never act without good reason.”

“No doubt he sees securing territory to bolster Tarn's borders following the damage to its economic superiority as a good reason to launch a military occupation.”

“It is not a military occupation!”

“Haacano, there are armed Tarnian troops on the streets of Simfur, carrying out arrests and disabling anyone who causes trouble.”

“On behalf of the new Simfur government!”

“A government being heavily 'advised' by Tarnian commanders.”

“Damnit – we are not being underhanded about this!”

“No. That's the point. You're doing it openly and without fear of the consequences. And as a result, you are making a lot of people extremely nervous. What are you planning for Simfur? Are you going to stop there? Will you go after the other cities that are now taking their fuel from Vos, not you?”

Making a sound of incoherent fury, Haacano began to rise from his seat, fists clenched. “These are baseless accusations! How dare you use a private conversation to perpetuate Vosian lies in front of me!”

“Sit down.” Xaaron's tone was so authoritative that Haacano obeyed before he had time to think about it. “Whether you like it or not, these are very real concerns for the rest of us. If the accusations are baseless, we must see proof of Tarn's good intentions. And if this sounds like I'm patronising you, that is simply because I am astounded that you haven't produced that proof already.”

When Haacano showed no inclination to respond, Xaaron went on, “You must see how reckless this is. The Allspark knows I am the last person to say that the Logical Revolution was, in itself, a bad thing. I was Tarnian before I joined the Defence Directorate, I know how bad it was. But that cannot excuse some of the things Viilon has done. Never mind the moral issues – he scares people, Haacano. Say what you will about the Vosians but at least they attempt to be diplomatic before the act. Viilon simply acts and then, perhaps, will explain himself – if he deems it necessary. He purposefully quashes any real indication of what he will do next. That is terrifying for the rest of us. And it is a hideously dangerous way to behave when your city has a record of disruption and aggressiveness that makes the riots in Simfur look like a slightly excited party.”

He thought, for a moment, that he would evoke as little response as before. Then Haacano gave a bass hum and let his hands fall open. “Tarn has existed since ancient times,” he said softly, “and Viilon's government has existed for but a few hundred stellar-cycles. The past overshadows us, Xaaron, at every turn. The Vosians call us warmongers and you all half-believe them because the Tarnians have _always_ been aggressively territorial. Viilon saves us from ourselves and you call him a tyrant. You demand proof of our good intentions then give us no time to prove them.” The thickset tank looked up and shook his head sadly. “Do you want reassurance? Do you want me to reassure the High Council, the people of Cybertron, the Prime himself that Tarn's intentions are honourable and that our troops are in Simfur to _help_ its people? Because I don't think I can do that. I'm not sure it is possible for a Tarnian to ever reassure the outside world that his city is not the monster you think it is.” Still looking sorrowful, he got to his feet and shrugged. “You want something that is impossible to give.”

Xaaron regarded him over steepled fingers. “I fear, Haacano, you are going to have to find a way to make it possible.”

The tank shrugged again. “We do not _have_ to do anything. Perhaps it is time for the rest of you to start accepting that.”

“Perhaps...” Xaaron smiled ruefully and rose to show his guest out. “Perhaps. But if you don't mind, I'll let you be the one to put that to the Council.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**'Red Comet' Temporary Housing Block**

**North District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

 

Nightbeat held Hardrive's empty gaze for two micro-cycles. He wondered how much of the blackmailer remained intact, frozen powerless and dead within the severed head. Had he been able to shunt his consciousness to safety in the moments before the blow had been struck? Doubtful. Still, like most civilians, he had probably kept himself mostly inside his head, most of the time. It was the natural way to maximise the speed at which you could process your optical feeds, and something they trained you out of when you joined the forces, civic or military (being in your chest most of the time meant that decapitation was less likely to take you out of a fight). It was just possible that enough remained inside what was left of Hardrive to have him rebuilt with maybe only some minor memory loss, or an inability to turn left in low light or something else inconvenient but non-life destroying. And there were patches for that kind of damage.

Nightbeat looked up and met the red optics of the mech opposite and knew that Hardrive was not going to be coming back, not with all the patches in the world.

He shrugged expansively and batted the head away with a foot. “I only said I'd get him out of the city. And aren't you a little small to be a global criminal brotherhood?”

Behind his sensor baffles, 'The Black Shadow' seemed to smile. “To you, I'm the Black Shadow. All of it. When I speak, we all speak.”

“A spokesmech?”

“A voice. And anyway.” A gun barrel extended through the distortion field, silver and ugly. “I'm the only bit of the Black Shadow you need to worry about right now.”

Nightbeat tilted his head to the side and smiled back. “What do you want?”

“You're the investigator, you tell me.”

“People usually find it annoying when I'm insufferably clever.”

“I'm willing to be impressed.”

“Oh, well, in that case – you're obviously here to find out what I know and then to kill me to prevent me telling anyone else – but only after I've told you who I've already told so you can go and kill them to stop them telling anyone else and if I play this right I can probably get you hunted down on a charge of attempting to murder the entire population of Praxus, but I won't because I think that anyone who can get a black light projector installed in my room without me noticing is probably extremely clever. Especially since it was a black light projector not a bomb. You're cautious and not willing to just blow me up when that could be both evidence I was on to something and a real problem for you if I had somehow managed to get what I know past your surveillance.”

“Plus which, you as good as asked me to come,” the red-eyed mech added patiently.

“Plus which I as good as asked you to come,” Nigthbeat agreed cheerfully, “But I thought that was too obvious to be worth mentioning. Similarly, you know who blew up the Mahlex district, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Would it make you tell me what I want to know?”

“I doubt it.”

“Then I'm just going to start shooting you until you tell me how you found out about Hardrive.”

Crossing his arms, Nightbeat paced to and fro for a moment. “You really need me to spell that out? I'd have thought it was obvious.”

“Let's pretend I'm stupid.”

“You don't want me to do that. I don't like stupid people.” He stopped and hummed. “I just hacked into Konntryn's files and found out who'd been in there before. Not exactly awesomely complicated.”

“Those files were locked behind a premium grade firewall and a Civic Guard lock-out after the murder.”

“I'm very clever and standards are dropping all over the place.”

The red optics dimmed and then brightened, the gun never wavering. “That's kind of disappointing. Like cheating.”

“So what? You'd have done exactly the same. If you'd had to.”

“If I'd not known who did it before, you mean?”

“Obviously. I'm assuming one of the local Black Shadows has decided that usual operating procedures are getting in the way of a little profit on the side?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because Hardrive said the Black Shadow had made him hand over the dirt on Konntryn and the Black Shadow doesn't do terrorism.”

“Why do you think they were really one of us?”

“Because you're here and I haven't found a body conveniently stripped of anything that could connect it to you. You're worried enough to come here and kill me rather than just point me where you want me to go.”

“Perhaps we think you're clever too.”

“Perhaps you do but that's no reason to not just hand me the culprit and let me take them to Tarn. You'd only act like this if the culprit actually was Black Shadow. Also – you'd have to be insane to pretend you were Black Shadow when you weren't. You might as well just jump in a smelting pool and be done with it.”

The voice of the Black Shadow nodded sagely – at least, that was what it looked like. “You're right about us not doing terrorism, too. It's not smart.”

Not in comparison to murdering people for their wealth, stealing from honest (ish) merchants and making life miserable for anyone who gets in your way, you mean? Nightbeat kept the obvious sarcastic retort in the privacy of his thoughts. Antagonising this mech would not help.

Out loud, he said, “Of course not. People don't excuse obvious mass-murder. No one really cares if the First Covenant gets broken in private but doing it in public is just plain bad taste. The Black Shadow sticks to theft and generic violence, it's just a menace. It starts taking money to commit acts of grand destruction of life and property, it becomes something to be hunted down and crushed.”

“It's easier when no one cares,” the Black Shadow confirmed casually.

“Which means when you're done with me, you're going to make one or two of your brothers vanish.”

“Something like that.”

“Right, well before you get on with that, can I point out a mistake you're making?”

The gun moved, ever so slightly. “I didn't shoot you three cycles ago?”

Nightbeat's expression remained very, very neutral. “No. I mean that you didn't ask me what the box on the wall is.”

He did not, even slightly, make any move to point towards the hand-sized, dull grey cube clamped to one of the artistically bare support pillars. All the same, he could tell – just about – that the Black Shadow's gaze had momentarily flickered away from him and towards the cube.

“What is it?”

“A Tarnian military communicator. Specially adapted for long-range reconnaissance. It compresses reports into pico-cycle long bursts and transmits them to high-orbit satellites under the cover of the usual fluctuations in the local power grids. I used it a little while before you arrived to send my latest findings direct to Viilon. He knows all about your involvement.”

The Black Shadow was nonplussed by this revelation. “So what? He still won't know who actually blew up his city, will he? Or have you been trying to fool me?”

“Wouldn't dare,” Nightbeat answered quickly and accurately, “No, you're right. He won't know precisely. But he knows the Black Shadow was involved.”

The mech with the red optics actually laughed at that. “Oh, yeah, that's a real big mistake. Because we're _so_ scared that Tarn might know it was someone saying they were us who hurt them.”

“Who's talking about Tarn? I'm talking about _Viilon_.” Nightbeat paused, as if to try and gather his thoughts for some great effort of explanation. It gave him enough time to see if the Black Shadow would work it out for himself. He didn't. Which was a pity, since he had seemed so intelligent.

“Do you know what they called Viilon when he was in the military – before he took it into his head to depose the old warlords and rebuild Tarn along scientific lines, I mean. Do you know what his nickname was? No? They called him _Shockwave_.” There was no reply but it was just possible, behind all the distortion, that the Black Shadow was looking interested. Encouraged that he was not likely to be shot immediately, Nightbeat went on. “They called him that because once he decided you needed to go down, it was as if the bomb that killed you had already gone off. If he came after you, he would not stop, deviate or turn back until you had been dealt with.”

“Oh, I get it. I kill you and I get hunted down by a one-eyed glitch who doesn't know when to give up, is that it?”

Nightbeat shook his head vigorously. “No. You kill me, Viilon decides he doesn't have time to play games any more and he takes the Black Shadow apart piece by piece until he finds out what he wants to know. He might be logical but he can't afford to be patient when there's someone out there willing and able to strike against him. I was the tactful option. The tactical option will involve Tarnian crack troops hunting all of you down and ripping information from what's left of your higher processors.” He jerked a thumb at Hardrive's head, lying forgotten by the door. “If you're lucky, when they're finished, there'll be about enough left of you as there is of him.”

Silence. The Black Shadow's optics narrowed. Then, “You're not exactly scaring me, here.”

Nightbeat twitched, desperate to pace and wave his arms about, frustrated that he could not drive the point home with more theatre. “No, but it's making you hesitate because you know I'm right, or that, at the very least, it's something you should consider before shooting me to death. Are you really willing to risk the destruction of your brotherhood just to make a particularly brilliant and infuriating commercial sneak shut up?”

After an eternity measuring precisely one and three eighth cycles, the Black Shadow cocked his chin and let the barrel of his gun slip ever so slightly off target. “So what? What am I supposed to do instead of killing you?”

The investigator grinned, widely and in triumph. “I was starting to think you'd never ask...”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Train Dock Five**

**North District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

 

Diatrion rolled off the train with his mind full of worst-case scenarios. Really, he had thought of pretty much nothing else throughout the trip, excepting reviewing his case notes over and over again and logging the usual travel permits with border control. Would he find Nightbeat's broken body lying in an alley in the Praxus Underground? His corpse, smashed to bits in a Dead End and stripped clean by ravenous Empties? His head, neatly planted on a spike outside the Civic Guard base? The molten remains of his chaises dredged out of the local smelting pits? Or would he just not find him at all? Would the investigator have simply vanished, never to be seen again?

As was inevitable, Nightbeat was waiting on the platform, perfectly intact, with his engine revving impatiently.

“About time too! I was about to think I'd have to start without you!”

Diatrion – who was, even in truck mode, easily as big again as the other mech – parked himself squarely across the blue car's path. “Start what?”

“To act on information received, of course! Come on! We need to move quickly!”

“Why?” Diatrion asked with practised infinite patience.

“Because,” Nightbeat snapped, speaking so fast he was in danger of breaking the sound barrier, “if we don't the murderers will get away, we'll miss the chance to solve the destruction of the Mahlex District and the Black Shadow will hunt down and kill me because I didn't save them from Viilon's perfectly logical wrath. None of these would be good, so can we please just _HURRY_.”

Several responses ran through Diatrion's processors, mingling with genuine relief that Nightbeat had both stayed alive and managed to get somewhere with his investigations, and instinctive suspicion about the validity of his claims. What exactly had he found out? Who were the murderers (murderers, plural)? Where on Cybertron did the Black Shadow come into anything?

But the urgency in Nightbeat's voice was impossible to ignore. And Diatrion had not come all that way to ruin everything at the last moment.

“All right,” he said, reversing smoothly to allow Nightbeat to get out, “You can explain on the way.”


	15. Case Closed

**Sub Level Warehouse Sixty-Seven**

**South Merchant District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

 

The warehouse was, like any warehouse, a maze of stacked crates and containers. Plunging down through the district's sub structure, it resembled more than anything else a city in miniature, with streets and towers and platforms spread across a hundred different levels, most of them in darkness. The sheer volume and variety of materials held there made it impossible to scan properly, and searching manually would have taken days.

As Nightbeat had made clear with excruciating thoroughness on the drive over, they did not have days.

“ _We should have called in the Praxus Guardsmechs,”_ Diatrion insisted for the third time as he moved cautiously along the surface-level gantries. He had his gun drawn but uncharged. That would delay firing by several micro-cycles, but would hopefully also help prevent their targets detecting him before he was in position.

“ _We could also have had the Lor-Galun Choir announce our arrival with a full ceremonial chant,”_ Nightbeat beamed from somewhere on the other side of the chamber. He had produced his own gun when they arrived, a bulky weapon that looked far more dangerous than it actually was.

“ _Two of us can't cover every exit in this place_ ,” Diatrion shot back.

“ _We don't have to, we just have to cover the exit_ they _go for.”_

“ _Which you can 'extrapolate' already, naturally.”_

There was a pause. Diatrion slipped on to a staircase, climbing cautiously down to the next level. Then Nightbeat's voice sounded in his head again.

“ _That's the first time I've heard you being sarcastic, investigator. Congratulations on actually being capable of it.”_

“ _Only when I'm walking into a potentially fatal situation. Do you actually have any idea where they are?”_

“ _Plenty of ideas. I downloaded the schematics for this place before I went to the station to collect you. There are seven potential proper hiding places here – hiding places they'd chose if they were smart, I mean, which given everything they've achieved up to now is a safe assumption.”_

Only seven. Assuming that Nightbeat was correct. Which given everything he had achieved...still remained to be seen. Even now, Diatrion did not – could not – share Nightbeat's complete faith in his own abilities. His training made him recoil from the idea of blind trust. And when you got right down to it, he could not verify Nightbeat's tale about the Black Shadow mech or the deal to take down the killers. It could just be a figment of an over-active imagination, a fantasy generated by processors driven past the edge of sanity.

Unfortunately, given that they were potentially dealing with members of an organisation responsible for world-wide criminal activity and the deaths of numerous agents of law and order, the only choice was to proceed as if everything Nightbeat had told him was true.

“ _Show me these hiding places.”_ A map of the warehouse flashed into his mind, sections buried deep within the labyrinth highlighted. Route indicators snaked through the structure, complex paths that looked designed to confuse pursuit but could just have been the result of the distribution of the crates. At a quick estimate, it would take them at least six deca-cycles to cover all of them.

Which could easily be too long.

Diatrion began to make his way across to the next ladder. _“Let's get to work.”_

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took them less then two deca-cycles to cover four of the potential hiding places. Which was not to say that there weren't a lot more than seven _possible_ hiding places. It was simply that those seven were the best, given the basic factors that determined a good bolt-hole. How likely was it that their quarry had thought it through that well? They must have been worried, otherwise why make a run for a warehouse on the edge of the city with easy access to some of the less well-travelled sub-surface routes? But they had not yet tried to leave the city, which suggested they had enough presence of mind to realise that rushing into that would be stupid. Perhaps they were counting on the Black Shadow clearing up the trail before closing in on the traitors. Perhaps they simply hadn't worked out where to go next. Had coming to this particular warehouse been planned (having an escape route ready was consistent with their previous actions)? Or had it been a panicked decision caused by the fear of discovery (as the ease with which the Black Shadow had found them might suggest)? Would they have headed for the deepest, darkest part of the warehouse, or to the most easily defended section? Would they want to be close to one exit, or equidistant from several alternatives?

Nightbeat decided it would be best not to share his constant re-evaluation of the possibilities with his erstwhile brother-in-arms. Diatrion was the kind of mech who liked to have a definite aim. Constantly shifting the endpoint would be unfair. Better to work through the options and be ready to definitively change the goal if more information became available.

Information like a camouflaged motion sensor hidden at the top of a large stack of coolant barrels.

He stopped mid-stride, just outside its range. _Got them_.

As delicately as only a trained professional who had then gone far beyond what the training program had considered legal teaching could, he began to probe the sensor from a distance, searching carefully for the paths along which the device was linked to its controller.

“ _Motion sensor.”_ Diatrion's message came in at a few points above the lowest possible transmission strength.

“ _Ditto,”_ Nightbeat acknowledged, gently taking a small baffle-pack from his forearm, _“Can you deal with it?”_

“ _Already done.”_

Smiling, Nightbeat flipped the baffle-pack towards the stack of crates. The alarm went off at once – and the pack, set to broadcast on the same channel, cancelled the signal, fried the sensor and began sending false readings back to the master controller. _“Ditto,”_ he repeated, stepping experimentally forward. Satisfied he had not missed anything, he moved past the crates. _“Good job we're dealing with amateurs.”_

“ _We're dealing with dangerous criminals who laid waste to a major industrial centre without getting caught.”_

“ _I didn't say they weren't gifted amateurs. And they did get caught. By us.”_

“ _Not yet. Watch out for paired sensors.”_

He refrained from rising to the implication of a lack of common sense. The guardsmech was probably just being thorough.

At the final count, Nightbeat deactivated seven motion sensors, three tremblers and a sonic-detector web. The last took seven baffle-packs to properly shut down and the complexity of the defence suggested that he at least was getting close. A couple of cycles later, Diatrion reported having dealt with a similar set-up on the other side of the platform.

They were getting _very_ close.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The targets were holed up in a clear area between towers of crates and pallets that had been arranged to provide maximum cover. While their energy signatures were just clear enough at close range to reveal their location, it was impossible to get a clear shot at them. Diatrion hunkered down, vision darkening a little as he cut in his remaining stealth systems. A quick assessment suggested that there were two of them, one of average size and output, the other much bigger.

“ _I can see them,”_ Nightbeat called across, _“Big red mech, someone smaller and greenish bluish.”_

“ _Do you see anything more useful than what colour they are?”_

“ _They're talking. Just audible, probably don't have decent tight-beam comms.”_

Slowly and silently, Diatrion crept closer until he too could just make out what was being said. It sounded like a disagreement, but one that was only just starting up properly.

“...given it enough time,” one voice was saying, “Let's get out of here now.”

“Forget it,” rumbled the other, “We stay here until we're sure there's no one coming to help, _then_ we get ourselves out. I'm not arguing about this.”

“The slagger's double-crossed us. Least-ways he's not gonna help us. He's paid us already, he don't owe us anything.”

“He's gonna do what we tell him to. Not got the bearings to risk it. He'll send someone.”

“You're wrong.” There was a resigned note in the second voice. “We'd get the blame, not him. He's well out of it.”

“ _Someone else is involved.”_

“ _We knew that.”_ Nightbeat managed to convey exasperation even in that brief message.

“ _We should wait to see if they show up before doing anything.”_

“ _They're not coming.”_

“ _You can't know that.”_

“ _Weren't you listening? He's right, there's no way their employer is going to help them out when he's paid them off. It's in his interests to leave them to get slagged.”_

“Doesn't matter even if they do find us before we get out,” Voice Two was saying, “They can't hurt us.”

“So you say.”

“So I _know_. Look, we tested it. Anyway, we give it five more cycles then we boost out of here, fine?”

“Not soon enough.”

“It's as soon as your getting. 'Less you wanna go without me, o' course?”

“Smelt that!” This was followed by a harsh sound that Diatrion finally recognised as laughter. “You don't lose me that easy.”

“ _Five cycles is too long to wait.”_

“ _Yes,”_ Diatrion agreed reluctantly. Even with stealth systems, the chances of being detected were rising all the time. All it would take was a nervous diagnostic on the baffled sensors or a suspicious second glance towards an odd shape in the background radiation.

Nightbeat's voice hissed across the ether, barely a whisper. _“How do you want to handle this?”_

Diatrion answered without hesitation. _“The proper way.”_ And, charging his gun, he stood up.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nightbeat knew at once that he should not have asked, just stated a course of action. It was an old reflex, involuntarily acknowledging the niceties of working as part of a group. He had given in to it purely because Diatrion believed in doing things properly and when you were about to charge into battle with someone, it was important to keep them on your side.

He had just not expected the guardsmech to do something so properly idiotic as step out into the open and try to arrest two (ex) members of the Black Shadow single-handedly.

“Stand where you are. By the authority of the Inter-state Accords, I am taking you into custody on suspicion of involvement in the murder of Konn Mech Tryn, of involvement in the Mahlex District bombing and of trespassing on private property. Please come quietly or I will take appropriate action.”

Dreading what he would see, Nightbeat moved a little further out of cover, so that he had a better view into Red and Green's sanctuary. They were standing together, their backs to him, staring at the white and blue figure that had just manifested in front of them. The good investigator, radiating official empowerment, covered them with his standard-issue hand-gun.

Perhaps stunned by the sudden appearance of the full majesty of the law, they were slow to react. Then Red took a step forward, a wall of armour and pistons with hands like trash-compactors.

Diatrion did not hesitate. He fired, sending a volley of bright energy bolts to stab through the towering mech's skin and blast his systems into stasis-lock.

There was a sharp crackle of power and the energy splattered against the air, not even close to striking its target. Diatrion's optics widened, ever so slightly.

“Earthquake,” growled Green in voice one, pointing a judgemental finger, “Smash him.”

The red mech charged, accelerating incredibly quickly. Nightbeat saw Diatrion fling himself aside and then both mechs disappeared in a tremendous crash and an avalanche of tumbling crates.

Stupid, slagging, rule-following, lead-footed moron! Short-sighted, badly-tuned, iron-headed idiot! Rust-for-processor, shiny-armoured, thoughtless great –

Diatrion's voice cut across Nightbeat's mental ranting, sharp, clear and calm. _“Deal with that force-field generator while I keep the big one out of your –”_ The message cut off as a hollow boom echoed around the warehouse. Some way away, another pile of containers came crashing down.

Oh, yes, because the shape of the force-field and the speed with which it had sprung up suggested automatic deployment from a stand-alone unit, rather than an in-built projector – and there hadn't been any disturbance in the mechs' energy signatures either, so almost definitely an external device programmed to detect and intercept incoming fire, which would mean only limited self-repair capacity and an emitter that could not be easily reinforced to withstand greater exertion. It should therefore be possible to overload the shield and make it burn out, always assuming the user couldn't throw a giant thug at you and didn't take advantage of his greater cover to shoot back.

It was a terrible plan.

Nightbeat swung out from hiding, took aim and set his blaster to shoot continuously.

The coruscating beam struck the force-shield in a fountain of sparks. Green snapped round with a curse, revealing the glowing projector disc clutched in his left hand. The emitter whined steadily as it threw slabs of electromagnetic flux up against the incoming fire. Seeing Nightbeat, Green snarled and pointed the disc squarely at him. He lifted his other arm too, sections of his armour extending and reconfiguring into complex rings that started to spin at blinding speed.

There was just enough time for Nightbeat to realise that he was looking down the wrong end of a cyclone cannon before a jet of extremely pressurised air struck him in the chest and sent him flying.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Earthquake was a fast, smart fighter. Diatrion did not waste time being astonished that the massive mech could lash out with such speed and precision, and concentrated instead on being somewhere other than in the way of the huge fists. It was taking all his skill and training to stay even fractionally ahead of the blows, which were causing hundreds of shanix worth of damage every time they missed him.

He threw himself flat to avoid another swing and nearly received a foot to the face. Rolling away, he fired up at his attacker then jumped and dodged behind a support pillar. Most of the shots went wide and those that hit merely drew grunts of pain as they dissipated across solid armour. Even without the force-shield, Earthquake was heavily built enough to absorb the stun-bolts. If Diatrion had had enough time to take proper aim, to pick out some vulnerable spot, he was sure he could have taken the big mech down. But there was no time, no let up, no chance –

The pillar buckled, the hammer-blow of Earthquake's punch nearly tearing it in half. Grasping fingers passed microns in front of Diatrion's face. The crimson metal was pitted and dented and embedded with a million tiny fragments, all glittering different colours. Diatrion picked out several pinpoints of sparkling cyrianate, driven deep into the skin as if by some tremendous impact.

So. This was how Konntryn had died. Quite literally at Earthquake's hands.

The proof galvanised him. His senses, already extended as far as they would go, seemed to sharpen that little bit further. As he dived to the left, he scanned the crates, searching for something, anything that might –

There.

Danger symbols. Marks designating contents likely to explode if incorrectly handled.

With Earthquake nearly on him, Diatrion ran full-tilt for the marked canisters, levelled his gun, flipped it past the safe maximum power setting, fired, and flung himself to the ground.

A gout of flames and shrapnel erupted from the top-most barrel. The canister buckled then blew outwards, taking the ones below with it. Unable to stop himself in time, Earthquake ran straight into the whole fiery mess. He yelped, swiping at the viscous, flaming liquid splattering his face and torso, which only caused it to coat more of him. Swinging wildly, he collapsed yet more stacks, nearly bringing half of them down on Diatrion.

The fresh cascade abruptly gave way to open space. The edge of the platform.

Diatrion leapt for it. Half-blind, Earthquake lunged after him, feet thundering against the floor. At the last moment, Diatrion sprang to the side. The hulking red mech plunged over the edge with a howl, grabbing at empty space, helpless even as he tried to turn and stop himself.

But in the heat of the moment, Diatrion had miscalculated. Those great, pitted fingers caught him a glancing blow and Earthquake's scream became triumphant as he too pitched into the darkness.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Let me guess,” Nightbeat said, pulling himself free of the remains of the cage he had been flung against, “They call you 'Hurricane'.”

“Tornado, actually.” Safe behind his shield, the greenish mech advanced in what he probably thought was a menacing fashion. Which, to be fair, was actually quite menacing when you had lost your gun and had just been hit by enough pressure to bend metal. “Not that it's gonna matter to you.”

Gun gone, somewhere in mid-flight. Tornado's weapon in-built, couldn't be knocked away, behind a force-shield anyway. Own systems still recovering from the impact, clear line of sight, no way to dodge out of sight. Time to keep the criminal talking...

“Oh, that's what you think. Politeness is extremely important to me, especially in life-or-death situations. I would hate to get my killer's name wrong.”

“Funny.” Tornado stopped a few paces away and took aim, the cyclone cannon spinning up again.

“Glad you think so, a lot of people find my sense of humour too subtle.”

“Heh.” A single smirk. No hesitation. Just the smirk and the gun-arm.

What kind of damage would a cyclone cannon cause at close range?

An explosion, somewhere to the left, shook the platform. Tornado's attention wavered, his optics darting to find the source of the noise. Hesitation. Momentary. Enough.

Nightbeat sprang, throwing himself bodily at the other mech. The force-shield crackled into existence, blocking him before he could reach its owner. Tornado still staggered, his aim thrown off. The blast of air went wide, where it no doubt ruined some semi-innocent merchant's quartex. Nightbeat pressed himself grimly against the shield, beating at it with the flats of his hands, forcing it remain active, to keep him out.

And as long as it stayed that way, it was protecting him too.

Unable to shoot without deactivating the barrier, Tornado struggled to fend the blue mech off. He jabbed with the projector disc and pushed, putting all his strength into driving Nightbeat back. And he was the stronger of the two. But Nightbeat had persistence and the fear of certain death on his side. He kept pressing as close into the shield as he could, pounding, kicking, antenna spitting photon charges, doing everything he could to make it up across as wide an area as possible.

Dimly, he was aware that the whining from the projector had changed pitch, growing higher and more strained. Hardly a surprise. The shield was intended to block short, concentrated bursts of energy, not a constant, wide-spread pressure. It might have stopped an assassin's shot with ease but it was not meant for close-combat use. In fact, it was entirely possible that the emitter might just -

_Fzzzark!_

The shield sputtered out as the disc disintegrated. Nightbeat practically fell into Tornado's arms, antenna still blazing. Suddenly unprotected from the glare, Tornado's optics overloaded and he cried out in pain. The cyclone cannon was spinning again, ready to fire, triggered on pure instinct.

Nightbeat grabbed Tornado's elbow and wrenched upwards.

The blast caught the green mech under the chin and ripped most of his head clean off. He tumbled backwards, limp and powerless. Nightbeat went down with him and lay there for a micro-cycle, not quite daring to believe that he had managed to come out on top. Then he checked the body, hurriedly making certain it was not about to come back to life. But no, it was deep in stasis-lock, defensive shut-down brought on by the shock.

Sitting back on his haunches, Nightbeat eyed the gaping head-wound thoughtfully.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Falling, they tumbled, their momentum carrying them head over heels. Diatrion fought for enough control to avoid Earthquake's frantic flailing. Level after level rocketed by. There was no way to stop their descent, nothing near enough to catch hold of.

They locked optics through the flames that still wreathed Earthquake's head, both recognising the other's fear.

Earthquake began to transform. He must have hoped that a more compacted vehicle mode would help him withstand the impact. The great slabs of his armour shifted about him, rearranging into the shape of some giant earth-moving machine.

Rearranging and briefly exposing his less-well protected superstructure.

Diatrion's arm snapped out almost of its own accord, the gun still held tightly in his hand springing to life once more. Already strained by his earlier stunt, the barrel cracked immediately, but not before releasing a single, ragged energy bolt.

The stinging light flashed into the exposed structure and surged through Earthquake's body. He flinched, mouth dropping open, optics brightening briefly then going out. Unconscious, locked mid-transformation, the red giant slammed into the warehouse floor.

Diatrion was considerably surprised not to follow him offline. His own 'landing' moments later was exceptionally painful. It felt as if his every component had been jarred out of place. But, perhaps because firing his gun had bled off some of his velocity and perhaps because he had managed to roll with the impact, he clung on and stayed in the land of moving parts.

It would have been nice to lie there until everything stopped hurting. But then he remembered Nightbeat and the other criminal. Reluctantly, but knowing there was no choice but to get up, he peeled himself from the floor and got to his feet. Earthquake lay still on his side, smoke curling from the last remains of the oil as they burnt themselves out. It looked unlikely that he would be moving any time soon.

Satisfied, Diatrion hobbled away towards the nearest access ladder.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He found Nightbeat crouched over the green mech's offline form, fingers pressed into the gaping hole where the criminal's face should have been. Which was in many ways a relief, since he had been half expecting to find the opposite scene.

“What are you doing?”

Nightbeat did not start, as such, but did pull his fingers back with noticeable speed, an interface prong retracting sharply into his hand. “Checking his on-board file-store to trace his payment and therefore his employer. I still can't tell you who paid Tornado here to blow up the Mahlex District though. But,” he said, looking up at the guardsmech, “he definitely planned it.”

Holograms sprang up around them, schematics and plans, both of the industrial complex and the weapon used to destroy it, together with assorted incriminating documents ranging from payment receipts to transcripts of Konntryn’s underhanded dealings.

“Oh, don’t give me that look again,” Nightbeat snapped as Diatrion’s expression darkened, “This is all read-only. I may be brilliant but even I can’t plant files on someone without it being blatantly obvious to any idiot with a bit of cyber-forensics training. This is all legitimate – well, not legitimate, obviously, it’s all extremely criminal and likely to end up with this guy in isolation for the next few hundred mega-cycles but – oh, you know exactly what I mean.”

Diatrion nodded very slowly, frown fixed in place. Nightbeat waved dismissively. “Let's worry about all that later. Shouldn't you be calling in back-up now we've done the job?”

“I called them as soon as I was attacked. They should be on their way.” He looked pointedly from Nightbeat to Tornado. “Are you going to cause problems?”

“Am I wha – oh! No, no, they're all yours. Viilon commissioned me to find out who was behind the bombing, not bring them back to him. He can take that up with the Magnus. Have them extradited or put the charges before the High Council or whatever. No, I just need to report back to him and get paid.”

“Good.” Diatrion nodded again, still frowning. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“Hah! So formal after all this!” Nightbeat sprang up and patted the guardsmech on the chest. “Couldn't have solved it without you.”

From high above came the thump of retro-thrusters and the clamour of a large number of armed mechs bursting through the surface doors. The Praxian division of the Civic Guard had arrived. Nightbeat put his hands on his hips and leant back. “And there they are. It's true what the newsfeeds say – security response times are going up. Good job we weren't in mortal danger or anything, wasn't it?”


	16. Point of No Return

**Sub Level Warehouse Sixty-Seven**

**South Merchant District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

 

That wasn't the end of it, of course.

There were the Praxian guardsmechs to brief, the crime scene to secure, the evidence to catalogue, the property damage to access, and many, many reports to file. Diatrion spent the best part of two hecta-cycles repeating himself in increasing detail to a group of very eager investigators who he suspected were slightly over-compensating for only being involved in the case right at the end.

Then the Magnus arrived.

The shuttle landed while Diatrion was being checked over by a med-tech. He was quite relieved for the interruption – the stocky feme treating him had turned out to be a devout neo-Tractist, who took the opportunity to give him a stern lecture on how the sanctity of life as enshrined in the First Covenant explicitly forbid deliberately endangering that life and how, consequently, his recklessness when it came to his own was an affront to Primus and an insult against his hallowed ancestors. The slim constable sent to inform them that the Magnus wanted to see Diatrion immediately could not have been more welcome if he had been carrying a whole barrel of premium tetra-helix.

Diatrion's relief at escaping the audio-bashing lasted roughly as long as it took to emerge from the temporarily medical platform and see the blue and red figure towering over the crowd of guardsmechs outside.

Deca Magnus did not look pleased. His face was set cold and blank, his optics a smouldering orange. He was listening to the report from the senior Praxian officer with stony patience, twitching his head every so often to look at something that was being pointed out but otherwise completely still and silent. There was a palpable sense of nervousness in the air, not unlike that surrounding unexploded mines. Around him, constables and investigators went hurriedly about their duties, trying to look both parade-ground ready and heavily focused on their whatever it was they were doing.

The constable escorted Diatrion into the Magnus' shadow and they both saluted, snapping to attention. Deca did not react to their presence beyond a curt noise directed at the senior guardsmech when he hesitated for a moment. They stood like that for nearly a cycle while the Magnus heard the rest of the report. Once it was finished, he brusquely dismissed the officer, the constable and everyone else in the immediate area – everyone except Diatrion.

A single glance swept him from head to toe. Then, “In any other circumstances, I would be commending you for your gallantry in the line of duty. I trust you appreciate why I will not be doing so now.”

“I take full responsibility for my actions, sir.” Diatrion answered without hesitation, still at attention.

“And do you take responsibility for the actions of this commercial investigator – this Masz Mech Adep, alias Nightbeat. Do you take responsibility for his actions as well?”

“As much as they intersected with my case and as much as I allowed him to act where I should have prevented him from doing so, yes sir.”

“Intersected with _your_ case?” Something like amusement crossed Deca's face. “This stopped being _your_ case a long time ago. At best it looks like it was this ‘Nightbeat’s’ case. He is gone, by the way.”

Confused, Diatrion asked, “Gone, sir?” He had assumed Nightbeat was being held as a witness by the Praxian officers.

“The local Tarnian consul managed to pull out enough legal technicalities to dazzle the lead investigator into letting him go and hurried him away the moment his statement had been recorded.” This was said in a way that made it clear the lead investigator's prospects for promotion had subsequently withered to nothing. “He is no doubt halfway back to Tarn by now.”

Diatrion nodded his understanding but did not offer any comment.

Nor did the Magnus wait for him to. Looking across towards the warehouse, he continued, “I suppose we should be grateful we got something out of him before he left, although from what I understand it's harder to get him to _stop_ talking. Primus knows what's going to happen when he reports back to his current employer. No doubt I will have to devote the next few quartex to fending off extradition requests from Tarn and keeping those two prisoners of yours in our custody long enough to prove something against them. Prove something using evidence found by _us_ , I mean, not by some wretched commercial investigator. A commercial investigator taking the initiative in an official case – hn!” Deca scowled and spread his hands in disbelief. “And it had to be _this_ case. Do you really have any idea what you have done, investigator?”

It was not the question Diatrion had been expecting and, at first, he was lost for words. Then he realised that the Magnus was not asking about a murder case that a private citizen had been allowed to compromise. He was talking about evidence that directly contradicted official conclusions drawn by senior Civic Guardsmechs investigating a direct attack against one of the most powerful cities on Cybertron. A matter of image and public face, of politics and things far above a simple murder.

Things that Diatrion did not consider himself in the least bit qualified to pass judgement on.

“I tried to do my duty, sir, as best as I could under the circumstances. I regret resorting to breaking regulations and I will accept any dis-commendation without question, however I don't believe that I would have been able to solve the case without Nightbeat's assistance.”

If this was not the answer the Magnus had wanted, he had the decency not to accuse Diatrion of deliberately missing the point. “Perhaps not,” he murmured, optics flashing yellow for an instant, “You have a very interesting definition of 'duty', investigator, if this is where it takes you. Were you trying to prove yourself? Did the thought of a broken case-record drive you so far?”

“No, sir!” Diatrion shifted, embarrassed by the heat that crept into his denial. “If I've gone too far, sir,” he went on in a more even voice, “it was for the victim, not myself.”

“The victim?” Deca sounded genuinely puzzled.

“Konntryn, sir. The mech who was murdered in Tagen.”

The Magnus looked down again and, for the first time, seemed to actually see the mech standing in front of him. The coldness in his expression did not disappear, but it was joined by surprise, a little understanding and, just maybe, a hint of approval. “Justice has been served, investigator?”

“I hope so, sir.”

“You hope so, sir,” Deca mimicked, then hissed and shook his head, “Yes. Don't we all?”

He beckoned for the senior officer to come back. To Diatrion, he said, “You will turn all remaining materials relating to your investigation over to my staff, who will be taking over from now on. You will then return to your home-base in Tagen where you will continue in your normal duties until such time as you are required to give evidence in the prosecution of 'Tornado' and 'Earthquake'. At this time, I will not be endorsing any official reprimand against you for your unorthodox actions throughout this case; however I cannot rule out such a reprimand should a complaint be raised against you.” He paused before adding, “If I were you, I should avoid attracting any attention for a while. Dismissed, investigator.”

“Sir!” Diatrion was not sure if the Magnus even saw him salute. The towering mech had already begun to stride away and to issue orders to the crowd that gathered in his wake. All at once, the whole world seemed to have pushed the lone Tagen guardsmech from its thoughts. Diatrion was left standing in the middle of a crime scene, totally detached from the activity around him.

Dismissed.

After everything...

He broke from the salute, spun on his heel and walked smartly to the edge of the exclusion zone, communicated his credentials to the constables guarding the boundary, logged his authorisation and travel plans with the Praxian Civic Guard base, transformed and pulled out on to the road that would take him towards the train docks. He had his orders.

It was time to get back to work.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Central Processing Hub**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

Two burly tanks, their battle-masks locked in place, escorted Nightbeat through a maze of hallways to the heart of the Tarnian capital building. They showed him into a large, vaulted chamber humming with power and took up positions outside. The doors sealed behind them, cutting off the light from the corridor. The only illumination left came from the many screens hanging in a great arc from the ceiling.

Nightbeat surveyed the room carefully and with an interested expression, before turning to address the control podium. “Love what you've done with the place. Very oppressive autocratic chic.”

The podium unfolded, complex machinery simplifying down around its master. Viilon straightened, interface cables disengaging and snaking away into their housings, energon feeds shutting off and pulling out of his body, the whole apparatus of technocracy lifting from his back. If you had been fanciful, it might have looked as if he were being released from the grip of a giant fist.

Which just proved how backwards you could get things if you gave in to fancy.

With the podium collapsed into to a simple dais, Viilon turned his monoptical gaze on his visitor but made no move to step down and join him on the floor. Not particularly surprised by this (psychologically advantageous, clear field of fire, close enough to reconnect at a moment's notice if needed), Nightbeat put his hands on his hips and looked steadily back. “I'm guessing you got my report already.” A lie. He wasn't guessing.

“Correct.” Still the same flat voice. As if it would ever change.

“So – I suppose this is the part where you say thank you and pay me. Or torture me a bit to see if that report was accurate. I'd say the odds were about even. “

“I have already corroborated your report.” Viilon gestured, sending images and data spooling across the screens. “It is accurate in every respect, albeit unnecessarily florid in tone.”

Nightbeat shrugged. “Most people like a little excitement in the prose. Helps them feel they were there too.”

An alarm sounded in his head. 'Corroborated your report.' That was what the cyol had said. 'Corroborated.' Fine. Very sensible. And good, if it meant he got paid. Yes, fine.

How?

How had Viilon corroborated that report? He couldn't have got it more than a dozen deca-cycles ago. To have double checked everything so quickly...no. There was something missing. Some vital bit of information that Nightbeat was simply unaware of.

What?

“So, my literary short-comings aside, you're happy with my work, then?” he said, because the first rule of everything was that you never, ever showed that you didn't know something.

“It has been satisfactory,” Viilon acknowledged, optic steady, body motionless.

“Great! So that means you'll pay me, yes?”

“The agreed fee has already been deposited to your account. You basic rates plus expenses, plus remuneration for injuries received in the course of your employment. I can provide you with a channel should you wish to confirm the transfer.”

Oh, yes, because he could totally trust a communications system slaved to this cyol's will. “Don't worry, I believe you,” Nightbeat smiled. He could just ask. Here and now. It went against every instinct he possessed, sure, but Viilon was perhaps the one person who just _would not care_ about impertinent questions. At worst, he'd just ignore them. Except that he was a head of state as well as an emotionless logic-worshipper and heads of state tended to disapprove of people probing their secrets. “So, that's it then?”

“Our business is concluded,” Viilon confirmed.

“You don't want to ask me anything? Don't need anything clarified?”

“Your report was comprehensive.”

So why in the name of reason was Nightbeat there? If there were no questions to be answered, why was he standing in the heart of Tarn, before its absolute ruler? Certainly not just so that he could be told his work had been satisfactory, or to be paid. Both those could have been done remotely, and they were magnificently superfluous anyway. Protective custody to keep him out of the Civic Guard's hands for a while? That might have involved bringing him to Tarn but not to this temple to control-freakery. It just wasn't logical. Why was he there?

 _Why_?

“So I'm free to go?” He was only partially successful at keeping a trace concern out of his voice. The sudden rush of unanswered questions was becoming a little overwhelming, even for him. It was like getting halfway across a bridge only to see the other side falling into the ravine below.

“Our business is concluded,” the purple cyol repeated, “You may leave.”

“Just like that?” No-no-no-no! This wasn't right! What was he missing? What was this damned calculator playing at?

“As you say.”

In their first meeting, Viilon's lack of expression had been a challenge, something to be tested and needled, just to see if it would give way. Now it was a barrier, an impediment to understanding. A frustration of monumental proportions because there was no way to approach it, no purchase, no reasonable line of attack. _Something_ was missing, some piece of the puzzle – and Nightbeat could not see it. Could not even see the shape of it. To have come so far and then...

“I'll be off then.”

No reply. Obviously. Well then. He spun on his heel and took a step towards the door. Think it through, think it through. Logic. The key was logic. There had to be a reason for his being brought there. There was no reason for his being there if his business with Viilon really was concluded, so logically it could not really be finished. He took another step. All that stuff about his report being satisfactory – that couldn't be true then. Simply a platitude designed to lull him into a false sense of security. Surprise, one-eye, no good! Assume the inverse then. Assume that the report had not been satisfactory, that Viilon wanted more. Assume that.

A deep dread began to form at the back of his processors. Step three.

He had had fun threatening the Black Shadow with Viilon – with _Shockwave's_ – reputation. So much fun that he had forgotten what it _meant_. Viilon, who had single-handedly turned Tarn from a broken war-zone into a prosperous city. Viilon, who had been the terror of the battlefield even before that. Viilon, who saw the world through the filter of pure, clinical logic.

Viilon who corroborated _everything_. Which meant...

Step four.

“Your stratagem has failed.” There was no triumph in Viilon's words, no triumph, no pleasure, no satisfaction – just simple fact, plainly stated.

Nightbeat froze, every circuit singing with shock. _As if the bomb that killed you had already gone off._ “My...stratagem?” he asked, as calmly as he could. No answer. Nothing. Just the hum of the machinery. Very slowly, he turned back to face Viilon. To look up at that unwavering optic. And at the screens hanging above it.

“What...” he began. Then, “What?!”

His report had vanished from the screens, replaced by images of two mechs, one red and massive, one green and missing his face, both clamped into nasty looking devices, their heads encased in tangles of wires and cables that burrowed deep into their armour. Deep into their minds. Into their memories. Into their financial records.

“They're –!” The words tripped over one another. Nightbeat fought for coherence. “They're supposed to be in Praxus!”

“My agents within the Civic Guard were able to deliver them here before they could be more securely imprisoned.” The way Viilon said it, it was of no importance, a mere triviality, not a revelation of deep, deep corruption in one of the oldest Cybertronian institutions.

Nightbeat felt more shock at that than he would have expected. He had no great love for the White and Blues. Being one of them had battered it out of him. Even so, to see them undermined so casually – it _hurt_. Like seeing an old, slightly dim acquaintance being kicked in the tail for no very good reason.

“And now you're sifting through their brains,” he choked out.

“The search sequence was completed before you arrived.” Viilon turned his head and one of the screens hinged down and across, a new display flashing up. Reams of data rolled past the image of an angular flyer, his regal frame coated in gold and bronze. “This is the mech who funded the bombing of the Mahlex District. Gellr Mech Auon.”

It was a name that would mean nothing to almost everyone. Even Nightbeat, who liked to know all about the movers and shakers who controlled the fuel and the money, had had to look him up.

“A Vosian businessmech, with investments in fuel, foundries and various off-world enterprises.” Viilon paused, raising a finger to point out a particularly pertinent point in Gellrauon's stats. “He has connections to several major political figures in Vos and has been suspected of funding several anti-Tarn demonstrations.”

All of which, Nightbeat knew. All of which Viilon knew he knew. The yellow eye swung remorselessly back and pinned the investigator where he stood.

“You hoped by omitting these details from your report to me and passing Tornado and Earthquake into Civic Guard custody that you would prevent or else delay this connection to Vos from coming to my attention. In doing so, you would present me with an outcome in which I would merely have to wait for the full truth to be exposed by the Civic Guard, who would retain full control of the time and circumstances of that disclosure. In this way, the evidence's power could be limited and contained.” Viilon's optic contracted to a point. “This is not acceptable.”

Everything locked into place. This was what Viilon had wanted uncovering all along. Wanted? Was that the right word? Expected, perhaps. And he must have known that Nightbeat possessed the skills to track the money back to its source, deduced that there was only one reason why that information would have been omitted from the final report, and acted to secure the evidence by any means possible. A calculated risk, one that exposed his agents and lost him one advantage. Yet weighed against the potential political capital to be gained...

Politics. So easy to predict. The patterns just unfolded in Nightbeat's head. He hardly had to think about them. Connections, cause, effect, consequences, recriminations, retaliations. Patterns, spiralling out of each other. Patterns of conflict. Patterns of hatred. Patterns of ruin.

“No!” He barely recognise his own voice. Raw, petulant fury gripped him. He had been so sure, so giddily pleased with the resolution, the perfect solution and now – “No! No-no-no-no-NO!”

Viilon looked past him, optic returning to normal. The doors hissed quietly open and Nightbeat was dimly aware of the guards entering the room.

“As previously discussed, your work has been satisfactory. If you require a reference, it will be sent on to you.” Tarn's master flicked his attention to the hulking brutes who had just come in. “Escort this mech to the nearest transport hub.”

And with that, he reactivated the control podium, folding it around himself once more.

The prisoners vanished from the screens. Gellrauon too. Nightbeat was left flanked by the heavies, a tiny, raging figure to be hustled out and removed from play. A component, no longer needed.

Dismissed.


	17. Ignition

 

**Defence Directorate Command Platform**

**Primon Flats**

**Cybertron**

 

Optrion marched quickly through the access corridor, the alarms that had pulled him from shut-down still ringing in his head. The sounds of running feet echoed around the temporary structure, technicians and soldiers alike startled from their usual duties by the call to alert stations.

He spied Bentwing emerging from a side door and headed to intercept him. The blue flyer glanced down at him and nodded, expression puzzled. “Any idea what this is all about?”

“No more than you, I'm afraid.”

“Better get in there and find out then.” Wings twitching with anticipation, Bentwing led the way to the briefing chamber.

They found a dozen officers and adjutants crowded in front of the main displays, keeping only a little way back from Megatron and Vieuxuun. All optics were locked on the holo-screens which, absurdly, were flooded with news-feeds. Only the heavily annotated maps of the Vos/Tarn border remained at military spec – the rest was given over to an endless stream of images, from the Celestial Temple in Iacon to the streets of Tagen. Most prominent, however, were pictures streaming from the Vosian Palace of Law and the Tarnian capital building.

“ _...still not available for comment. However, sources close to the Conclave have reported that an emergency session has been in progress since mid-day. Reaction from the financial sector has been angry, with many accusing Tarn of attempting to discredit Vosian investors in the optics of the wider business community. Jal Avir Alva of the Pan-State Banking Conglomerate has called for the enforcement of due-process and a halt to baseless speculation –”_

The channel on the central display shifted, a new feed cycling up. A red mech standing in a golden colonnade peered earnestly into the camera. _“...just heard that Emirate Haacano of Tarn has been called to appear before the Magnus. This comes as several Lakatera states call for greater oversight of the Tarnian peace-keeping force deployed in Simfur, and, indeed, as serious questions are being asked about several recent energy deals brokered between Vos and states previously dependant on Tarnian fuel. And – yes – we now go live to an interview with Emirate Graviitus of Vos, who –”_

The channel changed again, this time to show a devastated industrial landscape, gutted by fire. _“...was the scene following the explosion in the Mahlex district energon distribution centre. The effect on the local fuel infrastructure has been catastrophic, and the consequences have been felt in many Qosho Region cities. While reconstruction is now well under-way, it is expected to be at least three mega-cycles before full operational status can be restored. The bombing, carried out using a high-intensity 'flash-point' device, was originally attributed to one of the anarchist groups known to operate in the region and sparked a joint Civic Guard/Defence Directorate anti-terrorist operation –”_

“ _...who have just joined us,”_ cut in the unmistakable voice of the famed reporter Grandslam, speaking over pictures of Governor Viilon and Lord Taynset of Vos, _“the main story this morning is the accusation by the Tarnian government that a Vosian businessmech funded the recent bombing of the Mahlex Industrial District in Tarn's east quarter. Evidence presented to the High Council and the Office of the Magnus is currently being assessed and an official statement as to its validity is expected shortly. Vos has already responded angrily to the accusations, condemning them as a cynical attempt to use the tragic loss of life as a political weapon –”_

“Commanders.” A communications technician interrupted the flow of news and brought the map to the fore. “We're picking up Tarnian military forces moving along the border. It looks like they're moving to reinforce several out-lying industrial centres.”

“In case the Vosians decide to blow up more power plants,” Vieuxuun muttered caustically, optics tracking the rapidly moving icons.

“A sensible precaution under the circumstances,” Megatron growled back.

“Possibly, but I doubt very much that the Vosians will see it that way.”

Optrion could only agree. Even in a defensive capacity, the sight of Tarnian troops moving anywhere near its borders would be anathema to Vos. From the murmurs running through the crowd, the potential consequences were obvious to everyone. “Frag me,” Bentwing said softly, “but this is gonna get messy.”

Megatron turned to his troops, face set and grim. “As yet, our orders have not changed. Given...this –” He gestured to the screens. “– however, it can only be a matter of time before we are called on to intervene. I want all lieutenant commanders to coordinate with their squad-leaders to prepare deployment strategies and tactical information on the region. Provided,” he adjusted, glancing at Vieuxuun, “that you agree with that.”

“Of course, Commander Megatron. In this matter I do not believe we can be _too_ prepared.”

“Right. Optrion, Bentwing, Cascade – we'll review this new dispersion of Tarnian forces. The rest of you – disperse and begin your preparations.”

The crowd broke up as ordered, the hum of concerned voices rising as the discussions began. Optrion moved against the tide, crossing the room to join his peers and superior at the tactical consoles, mind buzzing with possible outcomes and responses.

As he did, he saw icons lighting up on the Vosian side of the border. Aerial troops, deploying in watchful formations.

The first, he guessed, of many.

 

 

 

  
**End of Act 2**

 

 

 

**Cast List – Act 2**

  
**Name** **(Nickname)** **– Function** **– Full** **designation** **[Name** **– Base** **Form** **– Template** **– Birthing** **Well]**

**Sentinel Prime** () – Prime of Cybertron

**Xaaron** () – Emirate of Nova Cronum – _Xa Mech Aron Tava Szenda_

**Graviitus** () – Emirate of Vos – _Gravi Mech Itus Lyivas Keldon_

**Haacano** () – Emirate of Tarn – _Haac Mech Ano Tava Szenda_

**Traachon** () – Emirate of Iacon – _Traac Mech Hon Ias Zar_

**Aetalon** () – Emirate of Simfur – _Veeta Cyol Lon Dradia Chemic_

 

**Optrion** () – Defence Directorate Lieutenant Commander – _Op Mech Trion Novus Zar_

Zerinat ( **Ironhide** ) – Defence Directorate Trooper – _Zer Mech Inat Cosa Hexus_

Toiinat ( **Ratchet** ) – Defence Directorate Medic – _Toi Mech Inat Cosa Hexus_

**Megatron** () – Defence Directorate Field Commander – _Mega Mech Tron Tava Szenda_

Rahshiv ( **Ravage** ) – Defence Directorate Lieutenant – _Rah Quad Shiv Temla Corvis_

Hialuxx ( **Trailbreaker** ) – Defence Directorate Trooper – _Hial Mech Uxx Roda Zar_

**Vieuxuun** () – Defence Directorate Field Commander – _Vieuz Mech Uun Novus Hexus_

**Grandus** () – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Grand Mech Us Kolva Szenda_

**Viktoleo** () – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Vikto Mech Leo Lekto Zar_

Torlaet ( **Deftwing** ) – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Torl Mech Aet Lyivas Keldon_

 

**Taynset** () – High Lord of Vos – _Tayns Mech Et Lyivas Keldon_

**Sarristec** () – Lord of Vos – _Saris Mech Tec Lyivas Keldon_

**Vvnet** () – Lord of Vos – _Vvn Feme Et Lyivas Tema_

 

**Viilon** (Shockwave) – Governor of Tarn – _Vii Cyol Lon Dradia Szenda_

 

**Deca Magnus** () – Civic Guard Supreme Commander

**Diatrion** – Civic Guard Investigator – _Dia Mech Trion Novus Zar_

Chevuxx ( **Clutch** ) – Civic Guard Constable – _Chev Mech Uxx Roda Zar_

**Mesinat** () – Civic Guard Constable – _Mes Mech Inat Cosa Hexus_

**Talainat** () – Civic Guard Investigator – _Tala Mech Inat Cosa Hexus_

Relshiv ( **Glitter** ) – Civic Guard Pathologist – _Rel Quad Shiv Temla Corvis_

Maszadep ( **Nightbeat** ) – Freelance Investigator – _Masz Mech Adep Novus Keldon_

**Tynllonn** () - Civic Guard Commander – _Tynl Mech Lonn Cosa Hexus_

 

Veedacraal ( **Hardrive** ) – Freelance Accountant – _Veedac Mech Raal Verous Klyda_

Amagos ( **Earthquake** ) – Black Shadow Member – _Amag Mech Os Tarva Svenda_

Kattatron ( **Tornado** ) – Black Shadow Member – _Katta Mech Tron Roda Zar_

**Konntyrn** – Businessmech – _Konn Mech Tyrn Verous Nor_

 

**Gauun** () – Decal Designer – _Gau Mech Un Verous Klyda_

**Aratron** (Wheels) – Body-shop Worker – _Ara Mech Tron Verous Klyda_

**Calitae** () – Oil-house owner – _Cali Feme Tae Gelshal Klyda_

Junaadep ( **Racetrack** ) – Body-shop Owner – _Juna Mech Adep Roda Zar_

 

Eimoril ( **Needlenose** ) – Fashion Feed Personality – _Eimo Mech Ril Novus Keldon_

Jovandiim ( **Grand Slam** ) – Reporter – _Jovan Trac Iim Dradia Corvis_

Ottonaraac ( **Raindance** ) – News Feed Camera – _Ottona Avir Raac Kelssa Corvis_

 

Zirokk ( **Impactor** ) – Gladiator, Iacon East Heavy Club – _Zir Mech Okk Draida Viss_

Evvnortt ( **Rampage** ) – Gladiator, Praxus West Sector Heavy Club – _Evvn Mech Ortt Verous Klyda_


End file.
